\ 


The  Quiet  Hour 


Th.u: 


-J 


Henry  Howard,  Earl  of  Surrey 

From  the  drawing  by  Hans  Holbein 

(The  name  in  the  upper  left  is  incorrect,  and  was  added 
by  a  later  hand) 


The  Quiet  Hour 

Selected  and  arranged  by 
FitzRoy  Carrington 


'  Happy  those  early  days,  ivhen  I 
Shined  in  my  angel-infancy ! ' ' 

Henry  Vaughan. 


Boston 

and  New  York 

H 

oughton 

Mifflin  Company 

(3tbe  fiitoersi&e  fPrejsl*  Cambridge 

1915 

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COPYRIGHT,    1915,    BY   FITZROY    CARRINGTON 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 

Published  October  IQ15 


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Years  pass,  hopes  fade,  ambitions  change  their 

course; 
Love  changes  not,  is  old  yet  ever  new. 
Since  The  Queen's  Garland  first  I  twined  for  you 
Full  eighteen  years  have  spent  their  shaping  force. 
Together  The  Kings'  Lyrics  we  have  heard, 
The  Pilgrim's  Staff  guiding  our  wearied  feet, 
2?  The  Shepherd's  Pipe  to  us  has  sounded  sweet, 

•«*  And  sweet  has  seemed  each  rustic,  answering  word. 

Together  still,  we  share  The  Quiet  Hour 
With  boys  and  girls,  who  make  the  "quiet'   seem 
Some  far,  faint  echo  of  an  enchanted  dream 
Magicians  weave  by  necromantic  power! 
Sweetheart,  Wife,  Mother;  loving,  tender,  true, 
This  little  book  I  dedicate  to  you. 

FitzRoy  Carrington 
June  7,  IQI5 


Note 

For  permission  to  include  the  poems  from  A  Child'' s 
Garden  of  Verses,  by  Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  grateful 
acknowledgment  is  made  to  the  publishers,  Messrs. 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


Contents 
CraUlc  g>onffs 

How  the  Age  of  Children  is  the  Happiest  if  they 
had  Skill  to  understand  it 

Henry  Howard,  Earl  of  Surrey 
Balow  4 

Anonymous,  Sixteenth  Century 
A  Sweet  Lullaby  6 

Nicholas  Breton 

Sephestia's  Lullaby  o 

Robert  Greene 

Lullaby  IO 

Richard  Rowlands 
Lullaby  u 

Thomas  Dekker 

A  Cradle  Hymn  X2 

Isaac  Watts 

A  Cradle  Song  x, 

William  Blake 

The  Land  of  Dreams  14 

William  Blake 

Lullaby  ,r 

William  Barnes 


O  Sleep,  My  Babe  16 

Sara  Coleridge 

A  Christmas  Lullaby  17 

John  Addington  Symonds 

The  Retreat  21 

Henry  Vaughan 

The  Salutation  22 

Thomas  Traherne 


Innocence 

Thomas  Traherne 


Infant  Sorrow 

William  Blake 


24 


The  Rapture  25 

Thomas  Traherne 

The  Lamb  26 

William  Blake 

Infant  Joy  27 

William  Blake 


27 


Nurse's  Song  28 

William  Blake 

Ode  on  Intimations  of  Immortality  from  Recol- 
lections of  Early  Childhood  29 

William  Wordszvorth 


XI 

Time,  Real  and  Imaginary:  An  Allegory  37 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge 

Cljtitibooii 

A  Child's  Grace  41 

Robert  Herrick 

The  Picture  of  Little  T.  C.  in  a  Prospect  of 
Flowers  41 

Andrew  Marvell 

The  Nymph  and  the  Fawn  43 

Andrew  Marvell 

A  Child  45 

Mary  Lamb 

Three  Years  She  Grew  45 

William  Wordsworth 

Mater  Dolorosa  47 

William  Barnes 

Letty's  Globe  48 

Charles  Tennyson-Turner 

The  Toys  49 

Coventry  Patmore 

Mother  to  Babe  50 

George  Meredith 

Bed  in  Summer  51 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


Xll 

My  Bed  is  a  Boat  52 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

The  Wind  S3 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

North-West  Passage  54 

I.    GOOD  NIGHT  54 

II.    SHADOW    MARCH  55 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

"Adveniat  Regnum  Tuum"  55 

Katharine  Tynan 

The  Only  Child  56 

Katharine  Tynan 

Mydnyght  61 

Thomas  Sackville,  Lord  Buckhurst 

Hymn  to  Diana  62 

Ben  Jonson 

The  Evening  Knell  63 

John  Fletcher 

"Oft,  on  a  plat  of  rising  ground"  64 

John  Milton 

Evening  on  Calais  Beach  65 

William  Wordsworth 


Xlll 

Song  to  the  Evening  Star  66 

Thomas  Campbell 

To  the  Night  67 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 

To  the  Moon  68 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 

Sunset  Wings  69 

Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti 


§>Ieep 

Sleep  73 

Thomas  Sackville,  Lord  Buckhurst 

"With  how  sad  steps,  O  Moon"  73 

Sir  Philip  Sidney 

Come,  Sleep!  O  Sleep  74 

Sir  Philip  Sidney 

Care-Charmer  Sleep  75 

Samuel  Daniel 

The  Cypress  Curtain  75 

Thomas  Campion 

Come,  Sleep  76 

John  Fletcher 

Invocation  to  Sleep  77 

John  Fletcher 


XIV 

Dawn  77 

John  Ford 

On  a  Quiet  Conscience  78 

King  Charles  I 

An  Anodyne  78 

Thomas  Ken 

To  Sleep  80 

William  Wordsworth 

To  Sleep  81 

John  Keats 

The  Magic  Sleep  81 

Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson 


Cfcarme 

"You  spotted  snakes  with  double  tongue"  85 

William  Shakespeare 

The  Charm  86 

William  Browne 

"Now  the  hungry  lion  roars"  86 

William  Shakespeare 

The  Charm  87 

William  Shakespeare 

Dream-Pedlary  89 

Thomas  Lovell  Beddoes 


XV 

The  Owl  90 

Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson 

The  Fairies  9 1 

William  Allingham 

Robin  Goodfellow  93 

Anonymous 

SDircrcs 

Tuwhoo,  Tuwhit,  Tuwhit,  Tuwhoo-00  99 

Thomas  Vauter 

"Why  art  thou  slow,  thou  rest  of  trouble,  Death"       99 
Philip  Massinger 

A  Dirge  100 

John  Webster 

Dirge  100 

John  Webster 

Upon  a  Child  that  Died  101 

Robert  Herrick 

Index  to  Authors  with  First  Lines  of  their  Poems     105 
The  Table;  or  Index  to  First  Lines  no 


Illustrations 

Henry  Howard,  Earl  of  Surrey  (p.  3)  Frontispiece 

From  the  drawing  by  Hans  Holbein 

William  Blake  14 

From  the  painting  by  Thomas  Phillips 

William  Wordsworth  30 

From  the  painting  by  H    W.  Pickersgill 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson  54 

From  the  painting  by  YV.  B.  Richmond 

John  Milton  64 

From  the  etching  by  G.  B.  Cipriani  after  the  painting  by 
Cornelia  Janssens 

Sir  Philip  Sidney  74 

From  the  engraving  by  George  Vertue  after  the  painting 
by  Isaac  Oliver 

John  Fletcher  78 

From  the  engraving  by  George  Vertue 

William  Shakespeare  88 

From  the  engraving  by  Martin  Droeshout 


Part  I 
CraDU  g>ong0 


The  Quiet  Hour 

How  the  Age  of  Children 

is  the  Happiest  if  they  had  Skill  to 

understand  it 

Laid  in  my  quiet  bed,  in  study  as  I  were, 

I  saw  within  my  troubled  head  a  heap  of  thoughts 

appear. 
And  every  thought  did  show  so  lively  in  mine  eyes, 
That  now  I  sigh'd,  and  then  I  smil'd,  as  cause  of 

thought  did  rise. 
I  saw  the  little  boy  in  thought  how  oft  that  he 
Did  wish  of  God  to  scape  the  rod,  a  tall  young 

man  to  be. 
The  young  man  eke  that  feels  his  bones  with 

pains  opprest, 
How  he  would  be  a  rich  old  man,  to  live  and  die 

at  rest. 
The  rich  old  man  that  sees  his  end  draw  on  so 

sore, 
How  he  would  be  a  boy  again,  to  live  so  much  the 

more. 


Whereat  full  oft  I  smiled,  to  see  how  all  these 

three, 
From  boy  to  man,  from  man  to  boy,  would  chop 

and  change  degree. 

Whereat  I  sigh'd  and  said:  'Farewell!  my  wonted 

joy; 

Truss  up  thy  pack,  and  trudge  from  me  to  every 

little  boy; 
And  tell  them  thus  from  me;  their  time  most 

happy  is, 
If,  to  their  time,  they  reason  had,  to  know  the 

truth  of  this.' 

Henry  Howard,  Earl  of  Surrey. 

Balow 

Balow,  my  babe,  lie  still  and  sleep! 
It  grieves  me  sore  to  see  thee  weep. 
Would st  thou  lie  quiet  I'se  be  glad, 
Thy  mourning  makes  my  sorrow  sad: 
Balow  my  boy,  thy  mother's  joy, 
Thy  father  breeds  me  great  annoy  — 
Balow,  la-low! 

When  he  began  to  court  my  love, 
And  with  his  sugred  words  me  move, 


5 

His  faynings  false  and  flattering  cheer 
To  me  that  time  did  not  appear: 
But  now  I  see  most  cruellye 
He  care  ne  for  my  babe  nor  me  — 
Balow,  la-low! 

Lie  still,  my  darling,  sleep  awhile, 
And  when  thou  wak'st  thou 'le  sweetly  smile: 
But  smile  not  as  thy  father  did, 
To  cozen  maids:  nay,  God  forbid! 
But  yet  I  fear  thou  wilt  go  near 
Thy  father's  heart  and  face  to  bear  — 
Balow,  la-low! 

I  cannot  choose  but  ever  will' 
Be  loving  to  thy  father  still; 
Where'er  he  go,  where'er  he  ride, 
My  love  with  him  doth  still  abide; 
In  weal  or  woe,  where'er  he  go, 
My  heart  shall  ne'er  depart  him  fro  — 
Balow,  la-low! 

But  do  not,  do  not,  pretty  mine, 
To  faynings  false  thy  heart  incline! 
Be  loyal  to  thy  lover  true, 
And  never  change  her  for  a  new: 


If  good  or  fair,  of  her  have  care, 
For  woman's  banning 's  wondrous  sare  — 
Balow,  la-low! 

Bairn,  by  thy  face  I  will  beware; 
Like  Siren's  words,  I'll  come  not  near; 
My  babe  and  I  together  will  live; 
He'll  comfort  me  when  cares  do  grieve. 
My  babe  and  I  right  soft  will  lie, 
And  ne'er  respect  man's  crueltye  — 
Balow,  la-low! 

Farewell,  farewell,  the  falsest  youth 
That  ever  kist  a  woman's  mouth! 
I  wish  all  maids  be  warn'd  by  me 
Never  to  trust  man's  courtesye; 
For  if  we  do  but  chance  to  bow, 
They'll  use  us  then  they  care  not  how  — 
Balow,  la-low! 

Anonymous,  Sixteenth  Century. 

A  Sweet  Lullaby 

Come  little  babe,  come  silly  soul, 
Thy  father's  shame,  thy  mother's  grief, 
Born  as  I  doubt  to  all  our  dole, 
And  to  thyself  unhappy  chief: 


Sing  lullaby  and  lap  it  warm, 

Poor  soul  that  thinks  no  creature  harm. 

Thou  little  think'st  and  less  dost  know, 
The  cause  of  this  thy  mother's  moan; 
Thou  want'st  the  wit  to  wail  her  woe, 
And  I  myself  am  all  alone: 

Why  dost  thou  weep?  why  dost  thou  wail? 

And  know'st  not  yet  what  thou  dost  ail. 

Come  little  wretch,  ah,  silly  heart, 

Mine  only  joy,  what  can  I  more? 

If  there  be  any  wrong  thy  smart, 

That  may  the  destinies  implore: 

'T  was  I,  I  say,  against  my  will, 
I  wail  the  time,  but  be  thou  still. 

And  dost  thou  smile?     Oh  thy  sweet  face, 
Would  God  Himself  He  might  thee  see, 
No  doubt  thou  would'st  soon  purchase  grace, 
I  know  right  well,  for  thee  and  me: 

But  come  to  mother,  babe,  and  play, 

For  father  false  is  fled  away. 

Sweet  boy,  if  it  by  fortune  chance 
Thy  father  home  again  to  send, 


8 

If  death  do  strike  me  with  his  lance, 
Yet  mayst  thou  me  to  him  commend: 
If  any  ask  thy  mother's  name, 
Tell  how  by  love  she  purchased  blame. 

Then  will  his  gentle  heart  soon  yield: 

I  know  him  of  a  noble  mind: 

Although  a  lion  in  the  field, 

A  lamb  in  town  thou  shalt  him  find: 
Ask  blessing,  babe,  be  not  afraid, 
His  sugar'd  words  hath  me  betrayed. 

Then  mayst  thou  joy  and  be  right  glad; 

Although  in  woe  I  seem  to  moan, 

Thy  father  is  no  rascal  lad, 

A  noble  youth  of  blood  and  bone: 

His  glancing  looks,  if  he  once  smile, 
Right  honest  women  may  beguile. 

Come  little  boy  and  rock  a-sleep, 

Sing  lullaby  and  be  thou  still; 

I  that  can  do  naught  else  but  weep, , 

Will  sit  by  thee  and  wail  my  fill: 

God  bless  my  babe,  and  lullaby, 
From  this  thy  father's  quality. 

Nicholas  Breton. 


Sephestia's  Lullaby 

Weep  not,  my  wanton,  smile  upon  my  knee; 

When  thou  art  old  there's  grief  enough  for  thee. 
Mother's  wag,  pretty  boy, 
Father's  sorrow,  father's  joy; 
When  thy  father  first  did  see 
Such  a  boy  by  him  and  me, 
He  was  glad,  I  was  woe; 
Fortune  changed  made  him  so, 
When  he  left  his  pretty  boy, 
Last  his  sorrow,  first  his  joy. 

Weep  not,  my  wanton,  smile  upon  my  knee; 

When  thou  art  old  there's  grief  enough  for  thee. 
Streaming  tears  that  never  stint, 
Like  pearl-drops  from  a  flint, 
Fell  by  course  from  his  eyes, 
That  one  another's  place  supplies; 
Thus  he  grieved  in  every  part, 
Tears  of  blood  fell  from  his  heart, 
When  he  left  his  pretty  boy, 
Father's  sorrow,  father's  joy.. 

Weep  not,  my  wanton,  smile  upon  my  knee; 
When  thou  art  old  there's  grief  enough  for  thee. 


IO 

The  wanton  smiled,  father  wept, 

Mother  cried,  baby  leapt; 

More  he  crow'd,  more  we  cried, 

Nature  could  not  sorrow  hide: 

He  must  go,  he  must  kiss 

Child  and  mother,  baby-bliss, 

For  he  left  his  pretty  boy, 

Father's  sorrow,  father's  joy. 
Weep  not,  my  wanton,  smile  upon  my  knee; 
When  thou  art  old  there 's  grief  enough  for  thee. 

Robert  Greene. 

Lullaby 

Upon  my  lap  my  sovereign  sits 

And  sucks  upon  my  breast; 

Meantime  his  love  maintains  my  life 
1  And  gives  my  sense  her  rest. 

Sing  lullaby,  my  little  boy, 
Sing  lullaby,  mine  only  joy! 

When  thou  hast  taken  thy  repast, 

Repose,  my  babe,  on  me; 

So  may  thy  mother  and  thy  nurse 

Thy  cradle  also  be. 

Sing  lullaby,  my  little  boy, 
Sing  lullaby,  mine  only  joy! 


II 

I  grieve  that  duty  doth  not  work 

All  that  my  wishing  would; 

Because  I  would  not  be  to  thee 

But  in  the  best  I  should. 

Sing  lullaby,  my  little  boy, 
Sing  lullaby,  mine  only  joy! 

Yet  as  I  am,  and  as  I  may, 

I  must  and  will  be  thine, 

Though  all  too  little  for  thyself 

Vouchsafing  to  be  mine. 

Sing  lullaby,  my  little  boy, 
Sing  lullaby,  mine  only  joy! 

Richard  Rowlands. 

Lullaby 

Golden  slumbers  kiss  your  eyes, 
Smiles  awake  you  when  you  rise. 
Sleep,  pretty  wantons,  do  not  cry, 
And  I  will  sing  a  lullaby: 
Rock  them,  rock  them,  lullaby. 

Care  is  heavy,  therefore  sleep  you; 
You  are  care,  and  care  must  keep  you. 
Sleep,  pretty  wantons,  do  not  cry, 
And  I  will  sing  a  lullaby: 
Rock  them,  rock  them,  lullaby. 

Thomas  Dekker. 


12 


A  Cradle  Hymn 

Hush!  my  dear,  lie  still  and  slumber, 

Holy  Angels  guard  thy  bed! 
Heavenly  blessings  without  number 

Gently  falling  on  thy  head. 

Sleep,  my  babe;  thy  food  and  raiment, 
House  and  home,  thy  friends  provide; 

All  without  thy  care  or  payment, 
All  thy  wants  are  well  supplied. 

How  much  better  thou'rt  attended 

Than  the  Son  of  God  could  be, 
When  from  heaven  He  descended, 

And  became  a  child  like  thee! 

Soft  and  easy  is  thy  cradle: 

Coarse  and  hard  thy  Saviour  lay, 
When  His  birthplace  was  a  stable 

And  His  softest  bed  was  hay. 

See  the  kinder  shepherds  round  Him, 

Telling  wonders  from  the  sky! 
Where  they  sought  Him,  there  they  found  Him, 

With  His  Virgin-Mother  by. 


13 

See  the  lovely  babe  a-dressing; 

Lovely  infant,  how  He  smiled! 
When  He  wept,  the  mother's  blessing 

Soothed  and  hush'd  the  holy  child. 

Lo,  He  slumbers  in  His  manger, 

Where  the  horned  oxen  fed; 
Peace,  my  darling,  here's  no  danger; 

Here's  no  ox  anear  thy  bed. 

May'st  thou  live  to  know  and  fear  Him, 
Trust  and  love  Him  all  thy  days; 

Then  go  dwell  for  ever  near  Him, 
See  His  face,  and  sing  His  praise! 

Isaac  Watts. 

A  Cradle  Song 

Sleep,  sleep,  beauty  bright, 
Dreaming  in  the  joys  of  night; 
Sleep,  sleep,  in  thy  sleep 
Little  sorrows  sit  and  weep. 

Sweet  babe,  in  thy  face 
Soft  desires  I  can  trace, 
Secret  joys  and  secret  smiles, 
Little  pretty  infant  wiles. 


H 

As  thy  softest  limbs  I  feel, 
Smiles  as  of  the  morning  steal 
O'er  thy  cheek,  and  o'er  thy  breast 
Where  thy  little  heart  doth  rest. 

O  the  cunning  wiles  that  creep 
In  thy  little  heart  asleep! 
When  thy  little  heart  doth  wake, 
Then  the  dreadful  light  shall  break. 

William  Blake. 

The  Land  of  Dreams 

Awake,  awake,  my  little  boy! 
Thou  wast  thy  mother's  only  joy. 
Why  dost  thou  weep  in  thy  gentle  sleep? 
Awake!  thy  father  doth  thee  keep. 

'O,  what  land  is  the  Land  of  Dreams? 

What  are  its  mountains  and  what  are  its  streams? ' 

'0  father!  I  saw  my  mother  there, 

Among  the  lilies  by  waters  fair.' 

'Among  the  lambs,  clothed  in  white, 

She  walk'd  with  her  Thomas  in  sweet  delight. 

I  wept  for  joy,  like  a  dove  I  mourn  — 

O  when  shall  I  again  return? ' 


William  Blake 

From  the  painting  by  Thomas  Phillips 


15 

'Dear  child!  I  also  by  pleasant  streams 
Have  wandered  all  night  in  the  Land  of  Dreams; 
But  though  calm  and  warm  the  waters  wide, 
I  could  not  get  to  the  other  side.' 

'Father,  0  father!  what  do  we  here? 
In  this  land  of  unbelief  and  fear? 
The  Land  of  Dreams  is  better  far, 
Above  the  light  of  the  morning  star.' 

William  Blake. 

Lullaby 

The  rook's  nest  do  rock  on  the  tree-top 

Where  vew  foes  can  stand; 

The  martin's  is  high,  an'  is  deep 

In  the  steep  cliff  o'  zand. 

But  thou,  love,  a-sleepin'  where  vootsteps 

Mid  come  to  thy  bed, 

Hast  father  an'  mother  to  watch  thee 

An'  shelter  thy  head. 

Lullaby,  Lilybrow.    Lie  asleep; 

Blest  be  thy  rest. 

An'  zome  birds  do  keep  under  ruffen 
Their  young  vrom  the  storm, 
An'  zome  wi'  nest-hoodens  o'  moss 
An'  o'  wool,  do  lie  warm. 


i6 

An'  we  wull  look  well  to  the  house  ruf 
That  o'er  thee  mid  leak, 
An'  the  blast  that  mid  beat  on  thy  winder 
Shall  not  smite  thy  cheak. 

Lullaby,  Lilybrow.   Lie  asleep; 

Blest  be  thy  rest. 

William  Barnes. 


O  Sleep,  My  Babe 

O  sleep,  my  babe,  hear  not  the  rippling  wave, 
Nor  feel  the  breeze  that  round  thee   ling'ring 
strays 
To  drink  thy  balmy  breath, 
And  sigh  one  long  farewell. 

Soon  shall  it  mourn  above  thy  wat'ry  bed, 
And  whisper  to  me,  on  the  wave-beat  shore, 

Deep  murm'ring  in  reproach, 

Thy  sad  untimely  fate. 

Ere  those  dear  eyes  had  open'd  on  the  light, 
In  vain  to  plead,  thy  coming  life  was  sold, 
O  waken'd  but  to  sleep, 
Whence  it  can  wake  no  more! 


17 

A  thousand  and  a  thousand  silken  leaves 
The  tufted  beech  unfolds  in  early  spring, 

All  clad  in  tenderest  green, 

All  of  the  selfsame  shape: 

A  thousand  infant  faces,  soft  and  sweet, 
Each  year  sends  forth,  yet  every  mother  views 

Her  last  not  least  beloved 

Like  its  dear  self  alone. 

No  musing  mind  hath  ever  yet  foreshaped 
The  face  to-morrow's  sun  shall  first  reveal, 
No  heart  hath  e'er  conceived 
What  love  that  face  will  bring. 

O  sleep,  my  babe,  nor  heed  how  mourns  the  gale 
To  part  with  thy  soft  locks  and  fragrant  breath, 
As  when  it  deeply  sighs 
O'er  autumn's  latest  bloom. 

Sara  Coleridge. 

A  Christmas  Lullaby 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep!  the  Mother  sings: 
Heaven's  angels  kneel  and  fold  their  wings. 
Sleep,  baby,  sleep! 


18 

With  swathes  of  scented  hay  Thy  bed 
By  Mary's  hand  at  eve  was  spread. 
Sleep,  baby,  sleep! 

At  midnight  came  the  shepherds,  they 
Whom  seraphs  wakened  by  the  way. 
Sleep,  baby,  sleep! 

And  three  kings  from  the  East  afar 
Ere  dawn  came  guided  by  Thy  star. 
Sleep,  baby,  sleep! 

They  brought  Thee  gifts  of  gold  and  gems, 
Pure  orient  pearls,  rich  diadems. 
Sleep,  baby,  sleep! 

But  Thou  who  liest  slumbering  there, 
Art  King  of  Kings,  earth,  ocean,  air. 
Sleep,  baby,  sleep! 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep!  the  shepherds  sing: 
Through  heaven,  through  earth,  hosannas  ring. 
Sleep,  baby,  sleep. 

John  Addington  Symonds. 


Part  II 
infancy 


The  Retreat 

Happy  those  early  days,  when  I 
Shined  in  my  Angel-infancy! 
Before  I  understood  this  place 
Appointed  for  my  second  race, 
Or  taught  my  soul  to  fancy  ought 
But  a  white  celestial  thought: 
When  yet  I  had  not  walk'd  above 
A  mile  or  two  from  my  first  Love. 
And  looking  back  —  at  that  short  space  ■ 
Could  see  a  glimpse  of  His  bright  face: 
When  on  some  gilded  cloud,  or  flow'r, 
My  gazing  soul  would  dwell  an  hour, 
And  in  those  weaker  glories  spy 
Some  shadows  of  eternity: 
Before  I  taught  my  tongue  to  wound 
My  Conscience  with  a  sinful  sound, 
Or  had  the  black  art  to  dispense 
A  several  sin  to  ev'ry  sense, 
But  felt  through  all  this  fleshly  dress 
Bright  shoots  of  everlastingness. 

O  how  I  long  to  travel  back, 

And  tread  again  that  ancient  track! 


22 

That  I  might  once  more  reach  that  plain 
Where  first  I  left  my  glorious  train; 
From  whence  th'  enlighten'd  spirit  sees 
That  shady  City  of  palm-trees. 
But  ah!  my  soul  with  too  much  stay 
Is  drunk,  and  staggers  in  the  way! 
Some  men  a  forward  motion  love, 
But  I  by  backward  steps  would  move; 
And  when  this  dust  falls  to  the  urn, 
In  that  state  I  came,  return. 

Henry  Vaughan. 

The  Salutation 

These  little  limbs, 

These  eyes  and  hands  which  here  I  find, 
These  rosy  cheeks  wherewith  my  life  begins, 

Where  have  ye  been?  behind 
What  curtain  were  ye  from  me  hid  so  long, 
Where  was,  in  that  abyss,  my  speaking  tongue? 

When  silent  I 

So  many  thousand,  thousand  years 
Beneath  the  dust  did  in  a  chaos  lie, 

How  could  I  smiles  or  tears, 
Or  lips  or  hands  or  eyes  or  ears  perceive? 
Welcome  ye  treasures  which  I  now  receive. 


23 

I  that  so  long 

Was  nothing  from  eternity, 
Did  little  think  such  joys  as  ear  or  tongue 

To  celebrate  or  see: 
Such  sounds  to  hear,  such  hands  to  feel,  such  feet, 
Beneath  the  skies  on  such  a  ground  to  meet. 

New  burnisht  joys! 

Which  yellow  gold  and  pearls  excel! 
Such  sacred  treasures  are  the  limbs  in  boys, 

In  which  a  soul  doth  dwell; 
Their  organized  joints  and  azure  veins 
More  wealth  include  than  all  the  world  contains. 

From  dust  I  rise, 

And  out  of  nothing  now  awake, 
Then  brighter  regions  which  salute  mine  eyes, 

A  gift  from  God  I  take. 
The  earth,  the  seas,  the  light,  the  day,  the  skies, 
The  sun  and  stars  are  mine;  if  those  I  prize. 

Long  time  before 

I  in  my  mother's  womb  was  born, 
A  God  preparing  did  this  glorious  store, 

The  world  for  me  adorn. 
Into  this  Eden  so  divine  and  fair, 
So  wide  and  bright,  I  come  His  son  and  heir. 


24 

A  stranger  here 
Strange  things  doth  meet,  strange  glories  see; 
Strange  treasures  lodg'd  in  this  fair  world  appear, 

Strange  all  and  new  to  me; 
But  that  they  mine  should  be,  who  nothing  was, 
That  strangest  is  of  all,  yet  brought  to  pass. 

Thomas  Traherne. 


Innocence 

But  that  which  most  I  wonder  at,  which  most 
I  did  esteem  my  bliss,  which  most  I  boast, 
And  ever  shall  enjoy,  is  that  within 
I  felt  no  stain  nor  spot  of  sin. 

No  darkness  then  did  overshade, 
But  all  within  was  pure  and  bright, 
No  guilt  did  crush  nor  fear  invade, 
But  all  my  soul  was  full  of  light. 

A  joyful  sense  and  purity 

Is  all  I  can  remember, 
The  very  night  to  me  was  bright, 
'Twas  Summer  in  December. 

Thomas  Traherne. 


25 


The  Rapture 

Sweet  infancy! 
O  fire  of  heaven!  0  sacred  light! 

How  fair  and  bright! 

How  great  am  I, 
Whom  all  the  world  doth  magnify! 

O  heavenly  joy! 
O  great  and  sacred  blessedness 

Which  I  possess! 

So  great  a  joy 
Who  did  into  our  arms  convey! 

From  God  above 
Being  sent,  the  Heavens  me  enflame: 

To  praise  His  name 

The  stars  do  move! 
The  burning  sun  doth  shew  His  love. 

O  how  divine 
Am  I!  To  all  this  sacred  wealth, 

This  life  and  health, 

Who  raised  ?  Who  mine 
Did  make  the  same?  What  hand  divine? 

Thomas  Traherne. 


26 

The  Lamb 

Little  lamb,  who  made  thee? 
Dost  thou  know  who  made  thee? 
Gave  thee  life  and  bid  thee  feed, 
By  the  stream  and  o'er  the  mead; 
Gave  thee  clothing  of  delight, 
Softest  clothing,  wooly,  bright, 
Gave  thee  such  a  tender  voice, 
Making  all  the  vales  rejoice? 

Little  lamb,  who  made  thee? 

Dost  thou  know  who  made  thee? 

Little  lamb,  I  '11  tell  thee, 

Little  lamb,  I  '11  tell  thee: 
He  is  called  by  thy  name, 
For  He  calls  Himself  a  lamb. 
He  is  meek,  and  He  is  mild; 
He  became  a  little  child. 
I  a  child,  and  thou  a  lamb, 
We  are  called  by  His  name. 

Little  lamb,  God  bless  thee! 

Little  lamb,  God  bless  thee! 

William  Blake. 


27 

Infant  Joy 

"I  have  no  name: 

I  am  but  two  days  old." 

What  shall  I  call  thee? 
"I  happy  am, 

Joy  is  my  name." 

Sweet  joy  befall  thee! 

Pretty  joy! 

Sweet  joy,  but  two  days  old. 

Sweet  joy  I  call  thee: 

Thou  dost  smile, 

I  sing  the  while, 

Sweet  joy  befall  thee ! 

William  Blake. 

Infant  Sorrow 

My  mother  groan'd,  my  father  wept; 
Into  the  dangerous  world  I  leapt, 
Helpless,  naked,  piping  loud, 
Like  a  fiend  hid  in  a  cloud. 

Struggling  in  my  father's  hands, 
Striving  against  my  swaddling-bands, 
Bound  and  weary,  I  thought  best 
To  sulk  upon  my  mother's  breast. 

William  Blake. 


28 

Nurse's  Song 

When  the  voices  of  children  are  heard  on  the 
green, 

And  laughing  is  heard  on  the  hill, 
My  heart  is  at  rest  within  my  breast, 

And  everything  else  is  still. 

"Then  come  home,  my  children,  the  sun  is  gone 
down, 

And  the  dews  of  night  arise; 
Come,  come,  leave  off  play,  and  let  us  away 

Till  the  morning  appears  in  the  skies." 

"No,  no,  let  us  play,  for  it  is  yet  day, 

And  we  cannot  go  to  sleep; 
Besides,  in  the  sky  the  little  birds  fly, 

And  the  hills  are  all  cover'd  with  sheep." 

"Well,  well,  go  and  play  till  the  light  fades  away, 

And  then  go  home  to  bed." 
The  little  ones  leaped  and  shouted  and  laugh'd 

And  all  the  hills  echoed. 

William  Blake. 


29 

Ode 

Intimations  of  Immortality 

from  Recollections  of 

Early  Childhood 

There  was  a  time  when  meadow,   grove,   and 

stream, 
The  earth,  and  every  common  sight, 
To  me  did  seem 
Apparell'd  in  celestial  light, 
The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream. 
It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore;  — 
Turn  wheresoe'er  I  may, 
By  night  or  day, 
The  things  which  I  have  seen  I  now  can  see  no 
more. 

The  rainbow  comes  and  goes, 

And  lovely  is  the  rose; 

The  moon  doth  with  delight 
Look  round  her  when  the  heavens  are  bare; 

Waters  on  a  starry  night 

Are  beautiful  and  fair; 
The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  birth; 
But  yet  I  know,  where'er  I  go, 
That  there  hath  pass'd  away  a  glory  from  the  earth. 


30 

Now,  while  the  birds  thus  sing  a  joyous  song, 
And  while  the  young  lambs  bound 
As  to  the  tabor's  sound, 
To  me  alone  there  came  a  thought  of  grief: 
A  timely  utterance  gave  that  thought  relief, 

And  I  again  am  strong: 
The   cataracts   blow   their   trumpets   from   the 

steep; 
No  more  shall  grief  of  mine'  the  season  wrong; 
I  hear  the  echoes  through  the  mountains  throng, 
The  winds  come  to  me  from  the  fields  of  sleep, 
And  all  the  earth  is  gay; 

Land  and  sea 
Give  themselves  up  to  jollity, 
And  with  the  heart  of  May 
Doth  every  heart  keep  holiday;  — 
Thou  Child  of  Joy, 
Shout  round   me,  let  me  hear  thy  shouts,  thou 
happy  Shepherd-boy! 

Ye  blessed  creatures,  I  have  heard  the  call 

Ye  to  each  other  make;  I  see 
The  heavens  laugh  with  you  in  your  jubilee; 

My  heart  is  at  your  festival, 
My  head  hath  its  coronal, 
The  fulness  of  your  bliss,  I  feel  —  I  feel  it  all. 


William  Wordsworth 

From  the  painting  by  H.  W.  Pickersgill 


31 

0  evil  day!  if  I  were  sullen 
While  the  Earth  herself  is  adorning 

This  sweet  May-morning, 
And  the  children  are  pulling 

On  every  side, 
In  a  thousand  valleys  far  and  wide, 
Fresh  flowers;  while  the  sun  shines  warm, 
And  the  babe  leaps  up  on  his  mother's  arm:  — ■ 

1  hear,  I  hear,  with  joy  I  hear! 

—  But  there 's  a  tree,  of  many,  one, 
A  single  field  which  I  have  look'd  upon, 
Both  of  them  speak  of  something  that  is  gone; 

The  pansy  at  my  feet 

Doth  the  same  tale  repeat: 

Whither  is  fled  the  visionary  gleam? 

Where  is  it  now,  the  glory  and  the  dream? 

Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting: 
The  Soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's  Star, 

Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting, 
And  cometh  from  afar: 

Not  in  entire  forgetfulness, 

And  not  in  utter  nakedness, 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come 

From  God,  who  is  our  home: 
Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy! 


32 

Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 

Upon  the  growing  Boy, 
But  he  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it  flows 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy; 
The  Youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the  east 

Must  travel,  still  is  Nature's  priest, 

And  by  the  vision  splendid 

Is  on  his  way  attended; 
At  length  the  Man  perceives  it  die  away, 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 

Earth  fills  her  lap  with  pleasures  of  her  own; 
Yearnings  she  hath  in  her  own  natural  kind, 
And,  even  with  something  of  a  mother's  mind, 

And  no  unworthy  aim, 

The  homely  nurse  doth  all  she  can 
To  make  her  foster-child,  her  inmate  Man, 

Forget  the  glories  he  hath  known, 
And  that  imperial  palace  whence  he  came. 

Behold  the  Child  among  his  new-born  blisses, 
A  six  years'  darling  of  a  pigmy  size! 
See,  where  'mid  work  of  his  own  hand  he  lies, 
Fretted  by  sallies  of  his  Mother's  kisses, 
With  light  upon  him  from  his  Father's  eyes! 
See,  at  his  feet,  some  little  plan  or  chart, 


33 

Some  fragment  from  his  dream  of  human  life, 
Shaped  by  himself  with  newly-learned  art; 

A  wedding  or  a  festival, 

A  mourning  or  a  funeral, 
And  this  hath  now  his  heart, 

And  unto  this  he  frames  his  song: 
Then  will  he  fit  his  tongue 
To  dialogue  of  business,  love,  or  strife; 

But  it  will  not  be  long 

Ere  this  be  thrown  aside, 

And  with  new  joy  and  pride 
The  little  actor  cons  another  part, 
Filling  from  time  to  time  his  "humorous  stage" 
With  all  the  Persons,  down  to  palsied  Age, 
That  Life  brings  with  her  in  her  equipage; 

As  if  his  whole  vocation 

Were  endless  imitation. 

Thou,  whose  exterior  semblance  doth  belie 

Thy  soul's  immensity; 
Thou  best  philosopher,  who  yet  dost  keep 
Thy  heritage,  thou  eye  among  the  blind, 
That,  deaf  and  silent,  read'st  the  eternal  deep, 
Haunted  for  ever  by  the  eternal  mind,  — 

Mighty  Prophet!  Seer  blest! 

On  whom  those  truths  do  rest, 


34 

Which  we  are  toiling  all  our  lives  to  find, 
In  darkness  lost,  the  darkness  of  the  grave; 
Thou,  over  whom  thy  Immortality 
Broods  like  the  Day,  a  master  o'er  a  slave, 
A  presence  which  is  not  to  be  put  by; 

To  whom  the  grave 
Is  but  a  lonely  bed  without  the  sense  or  sight 

Of  day  or  the  warm  light, 
A  place  of  thought  where  we  in  waiting  lie; 
Thou  little  Child,  yet  glorious  in  the  might 
Of  heaven-born  freedom  on  thy  being's  height, 
Why  with  such  earnest  pains  dost  thou  provoke 
The  years  to  bring  the  inevitable  yoke, 
Thus  blindly  with  thy  blessedness  at  strife? 
Full  soon  thy  soul  shall  have  her  earthly  freight, 
And  custom  lie  upon  thee  with  a  weight, 
Heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  life! 

O  joy!   that  in  our  embers 

Is  something  that  doth  live, 

That  nature  yet  remembers 

What  was  so  fugitive! 
The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth  breed 
Perpetual  benediction:  not  indeed 
For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blest;  — 
Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 
Of  childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest, 


3S 
With   new-fledged   hope   still    fluttering   in   his 
breast: — 

Not  for  these  I  raise 
The  song  of  thanks  and  praise; 
But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 
Of  sense  and  outward  things, 
Fallings  from  us,  vanishings; 
Blank  misgivings  of  a  Creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realized, 
High  instincts  before  which  our  mortal  Nature 
Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  thing  surprised: 
But  for  those  first  affections, 
Those  shadowy  recollections, 
Which,  be  they  what  they  may, 
Are  yet  the  fountain  light  of  all  our  day, 
Are  yet  a  master  light  of  all  our  seeing; 
Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  power  to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 
Of  the  eternal  Silence:  truths  that  wake, 

To  perish  never: 
Which  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad  endeavour, 

Nor  Man  nor  Boy, 
Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy, 
Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy! 

Hence,  in  a  season  of  calm  weather, 
Though  inland  far  we  be, 


36 

Our  souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 
Which  brought  us  hither, 
Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither, 
And  see  the  children  sport  upon  the  shore, 

And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermore. 

Then  sing,  ye  birds,  sing,  sing  a  joyous  song! 
And  let  the  young  lambs  bound 
As  to  the  tabor's  sound ! 
We  in  thought  will  join  your  throng, 

Ye  that  pipe  and  ye  that  play, 

Ye  that  through  your  hearts  to-day 

Feel  the  gladness  of  the  May! 
What  though  the  radiance  which  was   once  so 

bright 
Be  now  for  ever  taken  from  my  sight, 

Though  nothing  can  bring  back  the  hour 
Of  splendour  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the  flower; 

We  will  grieve  not,  rather  find 

Strength  in  what  remains  behind; 

In  the  primal  sympathy 

Which  having  been  must  ever  be; 

In  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 

Out  of  human  suffering, 

In  the  faith  that  looks  through  death, 
In  years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind. 


37 

And  O  ye  Fountains,  Meadows,  Hills,  and  Groves, 

Think  not  of  any  severing  of  our  loves! 

Yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  feel  your  might; 

I  only  have  relinquish'd  one  delight 

To  live  beneath  your  more  habitual  sway. 

I  love  the  brooks  which  down  their  channels  fret; 

Even  more  than  when  I  tripp'd  lightly  as  they; 

The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new-born  Day 

Is  lovely  yet; 
The  clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting  sun 
Do  take  a  sober  colouring  from  an  eye 
That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mortality; 
Another  race  hath  been,  and  other  palms  are  won. 
Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  which  we  live, 
Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys,  and  fears, 
To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears. 

William  Wordsworth. 

Time,  Real  and  Imaginary 

An  Allegory 

On  the  wide  level  of  a  mountain's  head 
(I  knew  not  where,  but  'twas  some  faery  place), 
Their  pinions,  ostrich-like,  for  sails  outspread, 
Two  lovely  children  run  an  endless  race, 
A  sister  and  a  brother! 


85164? 


38 

This  far  outstripp'd  the  other; 
Yet  ever  runs  she  with  reverted  face, 
And  looks  and  listens  for  the  boy  behind: 
For  he,  alas!  is  blind! 
O'er  rough  and  smooth  with  even  step  he  pass'd, 
And  knows  not  whether  he  be  first  or  last. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 


Part  III 

CLliilDliooB 


A  Child's  Grace 

Here  a  little  child  I  stand 
Heaving  up  my  either  hand; 
Cold  as  paddocks  though  they  be, 
Yet  I  lift  them  up  to  Thee, 
For  a  benison  to  fall 
On  our  meat  and  on  us  all.  Amen. 

Robert  Herrick. 

The  Picture  of  Little  T.  C. 
In  a  Prospect  of  Flowers 

See  with  what  simplicity 

This  nymph  begins  her  golden  days! 
In  the  green  grass  she  loves  to  lie, 
And  there  with  her  fair  aspect  tames 
The  wilder  flowers,  and  gives  them  names; 
But  only  with  the  roses  plays, 
And  them  does  tell 
What  colour  best  becomes  them,  and  what  smell. 

Who  can  foretell  for  what  high  cause 
This  darling  of  the  Gods  was  born? 
Yet  this  is  she  whose  chaster  laws 


42 

The  wanton  Love  shall  one  day  fear, 
And,  under  her  command  severe, 

See  his  bow  broke  and  ensigns  torn. 
Happy  who  can 
Appease  this  virtuous  enemy  of  man! 

O  then  let  me  in  time  compound 
And  parley  with  those  conquering  eyes, 
Ere  they  have  tried  their  force  to  wound; 
Ere  with  their  glancing  wheels  they  drive 
In  triumph  over  hearts  that  strive, 

And  them  that  yield  but  more  despise: 
Let  me  be  laid, 
Where  I  may  see  the  glories  from  some  shade. 

Meantime,  whilst  every  verdant  thing 
Itself  does  at  thy  beauty  charm, 
Reform  the  errors  of  the  Spring; 
Make  that  the  tulips  may  have  share 
Of  sweetness,  seeing  they  are  fair, 

And  roses  of  their  thorns  disarm; 
But  most  procure 
That  violets  may  a  longer  age  endure. 

But  O,  young  beauty  of  the  woods, 
Whom  Nature  courts  with  fruits  and  flowers, 


43 

Gather  the  flowers,  but  spare  the  buds; 
Lest  Flora,  angry  at  thy  crime 
To  kill  her  infants  in  their  prime, 

Do  quickly  make  th'  example  yours; 
And  ere  we  see, 
Nip  in  the  blossom  all  our  hopes  and  thee. 

Andrew  Marvell. 

The  Nymph  and  the  Fawn 

With  sweetest  milk  and  sugar  first 

I  it  at  my  own  fingers  nursed; 

And  as  it  grew,  so  every  day 

It  waxed  more  white  and  sweet  than  they. 

It  had  so  sweet  a  breath!  And  oft 

I  blushed  to  see  its  foot  more  soft 

And  white,  shall  I  say  than  my  hand  ? 

Nay,  any  lady's  of  the  land. 

It  is  a  wondrous  thing  how  fleet 
'Twas  on  those  little  silver  feet; 
With  what  a  pretty  skipping  grace 
It  oft  would  challenge  me  the  race; 
And,  when't  had  left  me  far  away, 
'T  would  stay,  and  run  again,  and  stay; 
For  it  was  nimbler  much  than  hinds, 
And  trod  as  if  on  the  four  winds. 


44 

I  have  a  garden  of  my  own, 
But  so  with  roses  overgrown, 
And  lilies,  that  you  would  it  guess 
To  be  a  little  wilderness; 
And  all  the  spring-time  of  the  year 
It  only  loved  to  be  there. 
Among  the  beds  of  lilies  I 
Have  sought  it  oft,  where  it  should  lie, 
Yet  could  not,  till  itself  would  rise, 
Find  it,  although  before  mine  eyes; 
For,  in  the  flaxen  lilies'  shade, 
Is  like  a  bank  of  lilies  laid. 
Upon  the  roses  it  would  feed, 
Until  its  lips  e'en  seem  to  bleed 
And  then  to  me  't  would  boldly  trip, 
And  print  those  roses  on  my  lip. 
But  all  its  chief  delight  was  still 
On  roses  thus  itself  to  fill, 
And  its  pure  virgin  limbs  to  fold 
In  whitest  sheets  of  lilies  cold: 
Had  it  lived  long,  it  would  have  been 
Lilies  without,  roses  within. 

Andrew  Marvell. 


45 


A  Child 

A  child  's  a  plaything  for  an  hour; 

Its  pretty  tricks  we  try 
For  that  or  for  a  longer  space  — 

Then  tire,  and  lay  it  by. 

But  I  knew  one  that  to  itself 

All  seasons  could  control; 
That  would  have  mock'd  the  sense  of  pain 

Out  of  a  grieved  soul. 

Thou  straggler  into  loving  arms, 

Young  climber-up  of  knees, 
When  I  forget  thy  thousand  ways 

Then  life  and  all  shall  cease. 

Mary  Lamb. 

Three  Years  She  Grew 

Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower; 
Then  Nature  said,  A  lovelier  flower 

On  earth  was  never  sown; 
This  Child  I  to  myself  will  take; 
She  shall  be  mine,  and  I  will  make 

A  lady  of  my  own. 

Myself  will  to  my  darling  be 
Both  law  and  impulse:  and  with  me 


46 

The  girl,  in  rock  and  plain, 
In  earth  and  heaven,  in  glade  and  bower, 
Shall  feel  an  overseeing  power 

To  kindle  and  restrain. 

She  shall  be  sportive  as  the  fawn 
That  wild  with  glee  across  the  lawn 

Or  up  the  mountain  springs; 
And  hers  shall  be  the  breathing  balm, 
And  hers  the  silence  and  the  calm 

Of  mute  insensate  things. 

The  floating  clouds  their  state  shall  lend 
To  her;  for  her  the  willow  bend; 

Nor  shall  she  fail  to  see 
Even  in  the  motions  of  the  storm 
Grace  that  shall  mould  the  maiden's  form 

By  silent  sympathy. 

•  The  stars  of  midnight  shall  be  dear 
To  her;  and  she  shall  lean  her  ear 

In  many  a  secret  place 
Where  rivulets  dance  their  wayward  round, 
And  beauty  born  of  murmuring  sound 

Shall  pass  into  her  face. 

And  vital  feelings  of  delight 
Shall  rear  her  form  to  stately  height, 


47 

Her  virgin  bosom  swell; 
Such  thoughts  to  Lucy  I  will  give 
While  she  and  I  together  live 

Here  in  this  happy  dell. 

Thus  Nature  spake  —  The  work  was  done  — 
How  soon  my  Lucy's  race  was  run! 

She  died,  and  left  to  me 
This  heath,  this  calm  and  quiet  scene; 
The  memory  of  what  has  been, 

And  never  more  will  be. 

William  Wordsworth. 

Mater  Dolorosa 

I  'd  a  dream  to-night 

As  I  fell  asleep, 
O!  the  touching  sight 

Makes  me  still  to  weep: 
Of  my  little  lad, 

Gone  to  leave  me  sad, 
Aye,  the  child  I  had, 

But  was  not  to  keep. 

As  in  heaven  high, 

I  my  child  did  seek, 
There,  in  train,  came  by 

Children  fair  and  meek, 


48 

Each  in  lily  white, 

With  a  lamp  alight; 
Each  was  clear  to  sight, 

But  they  did  not  speak. 

Then,  a  little  sad, 

Came  my  child  in  turn, 
But  the  lamp  he  had 
O!  it  did  not  burn! 
He,  to  clear  my  doubt, 

Said,  half  turn'd  about, 
'Your  tears  put  it  out; 
Mother,  never  mourn.' 

William  Barnes. 


Letty's  Globe 

When  Letty  had  scarce  pass'd  her  third  glad  year, 
And  her  young,  artless  words  began  to  flow, 
One  day  we  gave  the  child  a  colour'd  sphere 
Of  the  wide  earth,  that  she  might  mark  and  know, 
By  tint  and  outline,  all  its  sea  and  land. 
She  patted  all  the  world;  old  empires  peep'd 
Between  her  baby  fingers;  her  soft  hand 
Was  welcome  at  all  frontiers.   How  she  leap'd, 
And  laugh'd,  and  prattled  in  her  world-wide  bliss; 


49 

But  when  we  turn'd  her  sweet  unlearned  eye 
On  our  own  isle,  she  raised  a  joyous  cry, 
'Oh,  yes,  I  see  it,  Letty's  home  is  there!' 
And,  while  she"  hid  all  England  with  a  kiss, 
Bright  over  Europe  fell  her  golden  hair. 

Charles  Tennyson-Turner. 

The  Toys 

My  little  son,  who  look'd  from  thoughtful  eyes, 

And  moved  and  spoke  in  quiet  grown-up  wise, 

Having  my  law  the  seventh  time  disobey'd, 

I  struck  him,  and  dismiss'd 

With  hard  words  and  unkiss'd, 

His  mother,  who  was  patient,  being  dead. 

Then,  fearing  lest  his  grief  should  hinder  sleep, 

I  visited  his  bed, 

But  found  him  slumbering  deep, 

With  darken'd  eyelids,  and  their  lashes  yet 

From  his  late  sobbing  wet. 

And  I,  with  moan, 

Kissing  away  his  tears,  left  others  of  my  own; 

For,  on  a  table  drawn  beside  his  head, 

He  had  put,  within  his  reach, 

A  box  of  counters  and  a  red-vein'd  stone, 

A  piece  of  glass  abraded  by  the  beach 

And  six  or  seven  shells, 


So 

A  bottle  with  bluebells, 

And  two  French  copper  coins,  ranged  there  with 

careful  art, 
To  comfort  his  sad  heart. 

So  when  that  night  I  pray'd 

To  God,  I  wept,  and  said: 

Oh,  when  at  last  we  lie  with  tranced  breath, 

Not  vexing  Thee  in  death, 

And  Thou  rememberest  of  what  toys 

We  made  our  joys, 

How  weakly  understood 

Thy  great  commanded  good,  — 

Then,  fatherly  not  less 

Than  I  whom  Thou  hast  moulded  from  the  clay, 

Thou  'It  leave  Thy  wrath,  and  say, 

'I  will  be  sorry  for  their  childishness.' 

Coventry  Patmore. 

Mother  to  Babe 

Fleck  of  sky  you  are, 
Dropped  through  branches  dark, 

O  my  little  one,  mine! 
Promise  of  the  star 
Outpour  of  the  lark; 

Beam  and  song  divine. 


Si 

See  this  precious  gift, 
Steeping  in  new  birth 

All  my  being,  for  sign 
Earth  to  Heaven  can  lift, 
Heaven  descend  on  earth, 

Both  in  one  be  mine! 

Life  in  light  you  glass 
When  you  peep  and  coo, 

You,  my  little  one,  mine ! 
Brooklet  chirps  to  grass, 
Daisy  looks  in  dew 

Up  to  dear  sunshine. 

George  Meredith. 

Bed  in  Summer 

In  winter  I  get  up  at  night 
And  dress  by  yellow  candle-light. 
In  summer,  quite  the  other  way, 
I  have  to  go  to  bed  by  day. 

I  have  to  go  to  bed  and  see 
The  birds  still  hopping  on  the  tree, 
Or  hear  the  grown-up  people's  feet 
Still  going  past  me  in  the  street. 


52 

And  does  it  not  seem  hard  to  you, 
When  all  the  sky  is  clear  and  blue, 
And  I  should  like  so  much  to  play, 
To  have  to  go  to  bed  by  day? 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 

My  Bed  is  a  Boat 

My  bed  is  like  a  little  boat; 

Nurse  helps  me  in  when  I  embark; 
She  girds  me  in  my  sailor's  coat 

And  starts  me  in  the  dark. 

At  night,  I  go  on  board  and  say 

Good-night  to  all  my  friends  on  shore; 

I  shut  my  eyes  and  sail  away 
And  see  and  hear  no  more. 

And  sometimes  things  to  bed  I  take, 

As  prudent  sailors  have  to  do; 
Perhaps  a  slice  of  wedding-cake, 

Perhaps  a  toy  or  two. 

All  night  across  the  dark  we  steer; 

But  when  the  day  returns  at  last, 
Safe  in  my  room,  beside  the  pier, 

I  find  my  vessel  fast. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 


S3 


The  Wind 

I  saw  you  toss  the  kites  on  high 
And  blow  the  birds  about  the  sky; 
And  all  around  I  heard  you  pass, 
Like  ladies'  skirts  across  the  grass  — 
O  wind,  a-blowing  all  day  long, 
O  wind,  that  sings  so  loud  a  song! 

I  saw  the  different  things  you  did, 

But  always  you  yourself  you  hid. 

I  felt  you  push,  I  heard  you  call, 

I  could  not  see  yourself  at  all  — 
O  wind,  a-blowing  all  day  long, 
O  wind,  that  sings  so  loud  a  song! 

O  you  that  are  so  strong  and  cold, 

O  blower,  are  you  young  or  old  ? 

Are  you  a  beast  of  field  and  tree, 

Or  just  a  stronger  child  than  me? 
O  wind,  a-blowing  all  day  long, 
O  wind,  that  sings  so  loud  a  song! 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 


54 

North-West  Passage 

I 

Good  Night 

When  the  bright  lamp  is  carried  in, 
The  sunless  hours  again  begin; 
O'er  all  without,  in  field  and  lane, 
The  haunted  night  returns  again. 

Now  we  behold  the  embers  flee 
About  the  firelit  hearth;  and  see 
Our  faces  painted  as  we  pass, 
Like  pictures,  on  the  window-glass. 

Must  we  to  bed  indeed?  Well  then, 
Let  us  arise  and  go  like  men, 
And  face  with  an  undaunted  tread 
The  long  black  passage  up  to  bed. 

Farewell,  O  brother,  sister,  sire! 
O  pleasant  party  round  the  fire! 
The  songs  you  sing,  the  tales  you  tell, 
Till  far  to-morrow,  fare  ye  well! 


Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

From  the  painting  by  W.   B.   Richmond 


ss 
II 

Shadow  March 
All  round  the  house  is  the  jet-black  night; 

It  stares  through  the  window-pane; 
It  crawls  in  the  corners,  hiding  from  the  light, 

And  it  moves  with  the  moving  flame. 

Now  my  little  heart  goes  a-beating  like  a  drum, 
With  the  breath  of  the  Bogie  in  my  hair; 

And  all  round  the  candle  the  crooked  shadows  come, 
And  go  marching  along  up  the  stair. 

The  shadow  of  the  balusters,  the  shadow  of  the 
lamp, 
The  shadow  of  the  child  that  goes  to  bed  — 
All  the  wicked  shadows  coming  tramp,  tramp, 
tramp, 
With  the  black  night  overhead. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 

"Adveniat  Regnum  Tuum" 

Thy  kingdom  come!  Yea,  bid  it  come! 
But  when  Thy  kingdom  first  began 
On  earth,  Thy  kingdom  was  a  home, 
A  child,  a  woman,  and  a  man. 


56 

The  child  was  in  the  midst  thereof, 
0,  blessed  Jesus,  holiest  One! 
The  centre  and  the  fount  of  love, 
Mary  and  Joseph's  little  Son. 

Wherever  on  the  earth  shall  be 
A  child,  a  woman,  and  a  man, 
Imaging  that  sweet  trinity 
Wherewith  Thy  kingdom  first  began, 

Establish  there  Thy  kingdom!  Yea, 
And  o'er  that  trinity  of  love 
Send  down,  as  in  Thy  appointed  day, 
The  brooding  spirit  of  Thy  Dove! 

Katharine  Tynan, 

The  Only  Child 

Lest  he  miss  other  children,  lo! 
His  angel  is  his  playfellow. 
A  riotous  angel  two  years  old, 
With  wings  of  rose  and  curls  of  gold. 

There  on  the  nursery  floor  together 
They  play  when  it  is  rainy  weather, 
Building  brick  castles  with  much  pain, 
Only  to  knock  them  down  again. 


57 

Two  golden  heads  together  look 
An  hour  long  o'er  a  picture-book, 
Or,  tired  of  being  good  and  still, 
They  play  at  horses  with  good  will. 

And  when  the  boy  laughs  you  shall  hear 
Another  laughter  silver-clear, 
Sweeter  than  music  of  the  skies, 
Or  harps,  or  birds  of  Paradise. 

Two  golden  heads  one  pillow  press, 
Two  rosebuds  shut  for  heaviness. 
The  wings  of  one  are  round  the  other 
Lest  chill  befall  his  tender  brother. 

All  day,  with  forethought  mild  and  grave, 
The  little  angel's  quick  to  save. 
And  still  outruns  with  tender  haste 
The  adventurous  feet  that  go  too  fast. 

From  draughts,  from  fire,  from  cold  and  stings, 
Wraps  him  within  his  gauzy  wings; 
And  knows  his  father's  pride,  and  shares 
His  happy  mother's  tears  and  prayers. 

Katharine  Tynan. 


Part  IV 


Mydnyght 

Mydnyght  was  cum,  and  every  vitall  thing 
With  swete  sound  slepe  theyr  weary  lyms  did  rest: 
The  beasts  were  still,  the  lytle  byrdes  that  syng 
Now  sweetely  slept  besides  theyr  mothers  brest, 
The  olde  and  all  were  shrowded  in  theyr  nest. 
The  waters  calme,  the  cruel  seas  did  ceas, 
The  wuds,  the  fyeldes,  and  all  things  held  theyr 
peace. 

The  golden  stars  wer  whyrlde  amyd  theyr  race, 
And  on  the  earth  did  laugh  with  twinkling  light, 
When  eche  thing  nestled  in  his  restyng  place, 
Forgat  dayes  payne  with  pleasure  of  the  nyght; 
The  hare  had  not  the  greedy  houndes  in  sight, 
The  fearful  dear  of  death  stood  not  in  doubt, 
The  partrydge  drempt  not  of  the  falcon's  foot. 

The  ougly  beare  nowe  myndeth  not  the  stake, 
Nor  howe  the  cruell  mastyves  do  him  tear; 
The  stag  lay  still  unroused  from  the  brake, 
The  fomy  boar  feard  not  the  hunter's  spear. 
All  thing  was  still  in  desert,  bush,  and  brear, 
With  quyet  heart  now  from  their  travailes  rest, 
Soundly  they  slept  in  midst  of  all  their  nest. 

Thomas  Sackville,  Lord  Buckhurst. 


62 


Hymn  to  Diana 

Queen  and  Huntress,  chaste  and  fair, 

Now  the  sun  is  laid  to  sleep, 
Seated  in  thy  silver  chair, 

State  in  wonted  manner  keep: 
Hesperus  entreats  thy  light, 
Goddess  excellently  bright. 

Earth,  let  not  thy  envious  shade 

Dare  itself  to  interpose; 
Cynthia's  shining  orb  was  made 

Heaven  to  clear  when  day  did  close. 
Bless  us  then  with  wished  sight, 
Goddess  excellently  bright. 

Lay  thy  bow  of  pearl  apart 

And  thy  crystal  shining  quiver; 
Give  unto  the  flying  hart 

Space  to  breathe,  how  short  soever: 
Thou  that  makest  day  of  night, 
Goddess  excellently  bright. 

Ben  Jonson. 


63 


The  Evening  Knell 

Shepherds  all,  and  Maidens  fair, 
Fold  your  flocks  up,  for  the  air 
'Gins  to  thicken,  and  the  sun 
Already  his  great  course  hath  run. 
See  the  dew-drops  how  they  kiss 
Every  little  flower  that  is: 
Hanging  on  their  velvet  heads, 
Like  a  rope  of  crystal  beads. 
See  the  heavy  clouds  low  falling, 
And  bright  Hesperus  down  calling 
The  dead  night  from  under  ground, 
At  whose  rising  mists  unsound, 
Damps,  and  vapours  fly  apace, 
Hovering  o'er  the  wanton  face 
Of  these  pastures,  where  they  come, 
Striking  dead  both  bud  and  bloom; 
Therefore  from  such  danger  lock 
Everyone  his  'loved  flock, 
And  let  your  dogs  lie  loose  without, 
Lest  the  wolf  come  as  a  scout 
From  the  mountain,  and  e're  day 
Bear  a  lamb  or  kid  away, 
Or  the  crafty  thievish  fox, 
Break  upon  your  simple  flocks: 


a 


64 

To  secure  yourselves  from  these 
Be  not  too  secure  in  ease; 
Let  one  eye  his  watches  keep, 
Whilst  the  other  eye  doth  sleep; 
So  you  shall  good  shepherds  prove, 
And  forever  hold  the  love 
Of  our  great  God.   Sweetest  slumbers 
And  soft  silence  fall  in  numbers 
On  your  eye-lids:  so  farewell, 
Thus  I  end  my  evening  knell. 

John  Fletcher. 


Oft,  on  a  Plat  of  Rising  Ground" 

Oft,  on  a  plat  of  rising  ground, 

I  hear  the  far-off  Curfeu  sound 

Over  some  wide-water'd  shore, 

Swinging  slow  with  sullen  roar; 

Or,  if  the  air  will  not  permit, 

Some  still  removed  place  will  fit, 

Where  glowing  embers  through  the  room 

Teach  light  to  counterfeit  a  gloom; 

Far  from  all  resort  of  mirth, 

Save  the  cricket  on  the  hearth, 

Or  the  bellman's  drowsy  charm 

To  bless  the  doors  from  nightly  harm. 


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Minx     WILTON 

DRAWN   AND   ETCHED    MDrcl  \    II J    I    H    CIPRIANI   ATVA'I   AN    KlloM 
APICTVRE    i:  ■  i       I   I    0  CORNELIVS  JOHNSON   MI>l\WIH    s<»u   is  tii  E 

pos.se    sio>  i  i    ['homas  hoi.lis  of  Lincoln's  inne  f.h.anu  a.ss. 

[>ISH    PLAY 
TO  MB  MAS  PLCASIXO  AL]     M\     MIND    WAS    SET 
SERIOVS    ro  LEARN    IN I»  KNOW    VXD  THENCE  TO  DO 
WHAT  MlCiJIT    BE  PVBL1C  GOOD    M  "i    SELF    I    TRWOHT 
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John  Milton 

From  the  etching  by  G.  B.  Cipriani  after 
the  painting  by  Cornells  Janssens 


65 

Or  let  my  lamp  at  midnight  hour 
Be  seen  in  some  high  lonely  tower, 
Where  I  may  oft  out-watch  the  Bear 
With  thrice-great  Hermes,  or  unsphere 
The  spirit  of  Plato,  to  unfold 
What  worlds  or  what  vast  regions  hold 
The  immortal  mind,  that  hath  forsook 
Her  mansion  in  this  fleshly  nook: 
And  of  those  demons  that  are  found, 
In  fire,  air,  flood  or  under  ground, 
Whose  power  hath  a  true  consent 
With  planet,  or  with  element. 

John  Milton. 


Evening  on  Calais  Beach 

It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free; 

The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  Nun 

Breathless  with  adoration;  the  broad  sun 

Is  sinking  down  in  its  tranquillity; 

The  gentleness  of  heaven  is  on  the  sea: 

Listen!  the  mighty  Being  is  awake, 

And  doth  with  his  eternal  motion  make 

A  sound  like  thunder  —  everlastingly. 

Dear  Child!  dear  Girl!  that  walkest  with  me  here, 

If  thou  appear  untouch'd  by  solemn  thought, 


66 

Thy  nature  is  not  therefore  less  divine: 
Thou  liest  in  Abraham's  bosom  all  the  year; 
And  worship'st  at  the  Temple's  inner  shrine, 
God  being  with  thee  when  we  know  it  not. 

William  Wordsworth. 

Song  to  the  Evening  Star 

Star  that  bringest  home  the  bee, 
And  sett'st  the  weary  labourer  free! 
If  any  star  shed  peace,  't  is  Thou 

That  send'st  it  from  above, 
Appearing  when  Heaven's  breath  and  brow 

Are  sweet  as  hers  we  love. 

Come  to  the  luxuriant  skies, 
Whilst  the  landscape's  odours  rise, 
Whilst  far-off  lowing  herds  are  heard 

And  songs  when  toil  is  done, 
From  cottages  whose  smoke  unstirr'd 

Curls  yellow  in  the  sun. 

Star  of  love's  soft  interviews, 
Parted  lovers  on  thee  muse; 
Their  remembrancer  in  Heaven 

Of  thrilling  vows  thou  art, 
Too  delicious  to  be  riven 

By  absence  from  the  heart. 

Thomas  Campbell. 


67 


To  the  Night 

Swiftly  walk  over  the  western  wave, 

Spirit  of  Night! 
Out  of  the  misty  eastern  cave 
Where,  all  the  long  and  lone  daylight, 
Thou  wovest  dreams  of  joy  and  fear 
Which  make  thee  terrible  and  dear,  — 

Swift  be  thy  flight! 

Wrap  thy  form  in  a  mantle  gray 

Star-inwrought; 
Blind  with  thine  hair  the  eyes  of  Day, 
Kiss  her  until  she  be  wearied  out: 
Then  wander  o'er  city  and  sea  and  land, 
Touching  all  with  thine  opiate  wand  — 

Come,  long-sought! 

When  I  arose  and  saw  the  dawn, 

I  sigh'd  for  thee; 
When  light  rode  high,  and  the  dew  was  gone, 
And  soon  lay  heavy  on  flower  and  tree, 
And  the  weary  Day  turn'd  to  his  rest 
Lingering  like  an  unloved  guest, 

I  sigh'd  for  thee. 


68 

Thy  brother  Death  came,  and  cried 

Wouldst  thou  me? 
Thy  sweet  child  Sleep,  the  filmy-eyed, 
Murmur'd  like  a  noon-tide  bee 
Shall  I  nestle  near  thy  side? 
Wouldst  thou  me?  —  And  I  replied 

No,  not  thee! 

Death  will  come  when  thou  art  dead, 

Soon,  too  soon  — 
Sleep  will  come  when  thou  art  fled; 
Of  neither  would  I  ask  the  boon 
I  ask  of  thee,  beloved  Night  — 
Swift  be  thine  approaching  flight, 

Come  soon,  soon! 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 

To  the  Moon 

Art  thou  pale  for  weariness 
Of  climbing  heaven,  and  gazing  on  the  earth, 

Wandering  companionless 
Among  the  stars  that  have  a  different  birth,  — 
And  ever-changing,  like  a  joyless  eye 
That  finds  no  object  worth  its  constancy? 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 


69 


Sunset  Wings 

To-night  this  sunset  spreads  two  golden  wings 

Cleaving  the  western  sky; 
Winged  too  with  wind  it  is,  and  winnowings 
Of  birds;  as  if  the  day's  last  hour  in  rings 

Of  strenuous  flight  must  die. 

Sun-steeped  in  fire,  the  homeward  pinions  sway 

Above  the  dovecote-tops; 
And  clouds  of  starlings,  ere  they  rest  with  day, 
Sink,  clamorous  like  mill-waters,  at  wild  play, 

By  turns  in  every  copse: 

Each   tree   heart-deep   the   wrangling   rout   re- 
ceives, — 
Save  for  the  whirr  within, 
You  could  not  tell  the  starlings  from  the  leaves; 
Then  one  great  puff  of  wings,  and  the  swarm 
heaves 
Away  with  all  its  din. 

Even  thus  Hope's  hours,  in  ever-eddying  flight, 

To  many  a  refuge  tend; 
With  the  first  light  she  laughed,  and  the  last  light 
Glows  round  her  still;  who  natheless  in  the  night 

At  length  must  make  an  end. 


70 

And  now  the  mustering  rooks  innumerable 

Together  sail  and  soar, 
While  for  the  day's  death,  like  a  tolling  knell, 
Unto  the  heart  they  seem  to  cry,  Farewell, 

No  more,  farewell,  no  more! 

Is  Hope  not  plumed,  as  'twere  a  fiery  dart? 
And  oh!  thou  dying  day, 
Even  as  thou  goest  must  she  too  depart, 
And  Sorrow  fold  such  pinions  on  the  heart 
As  will  not  fly  away? 

Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti. 


Part  V 
g>leep 


Sleep 

By  him  lay  heavy  Sleep,  the  cousin  of  Death, 
Flat  on  the  ground,  and  still  as  any  stone, 
A  very  corpse,  save  yielding  forth  a  breath: 
Small  keep  took  he,  whom  Fortune  frowned  on, 
Or  whom  she  lifted  up  into  the  throne 
Of  high  renown;  but,  as  a  living  death, 
So,  dead  alive,  of  life  he  drew  the  breath. 

The  body's  vest,  the  quiet  of  the  heart, 
The  travail's  ease,  the  still  night's  fear  was  he, 
And  of  our  life  in  earth  the  better  part: 
Reaver  of  sight,  and  yet  in  whom  we  see 
Things  oft  that  tide,  and  oft  that  never  be: 
Without  respect,  esteeming  equally 
King  Croesus'  pomp,  and  Irus'  poverty. 

Thomas  Sackville,  Lord  Buckhuvst. 

"With  How  Sad  Steps,  O  Moon" 

With  how  sad  steps,  O  Moon,  thou  climb'st  the 

skies! 
How  silently,  and  with  how  wan  a  face! 
What,  may  it  be  that  even  in  heav'nly  place 
That  busy  archer  his  sharp  arrows  tries! 
Sure,  if  that  long-with-love-acquainted  eyes 
Can  judge  of  love,  thou  feel'st  a  lover's  case, 


74 

I  read  it  in  thy  looks;  thy  languish'd  grace, 
To  me,  that  feel  the  like,  thy  state  descries. 
Then,  e'en  of  fellowship,  O  Moon,  tell  me, 
Is  constant  love  deem'd  there  but  want  of  wit? 
Are  beauties  there  as  proud  as  here  they  be? 
Do  they  above  love  to  be  loved,  and  yet 
Those  lovers  scorn  whom  that  love  doth  possess  ? 
Do  they  call  virtue,  there,  ungratefulness? 

Sir  Philip  Sidney. 

"Come,  Sleep!  O  Sleep" 

Come,  Sleep !  O  Sleep,  the  certain  knot  of  peace, 
The  baiting-place  of  wit,  the  balm  of  woe, 
The  poor  man's  wealth,  the  prisoner's  release, 
Th'  indifferent  judge  between  the  high  and  low; 
With  shield  of  proof  shield  me  from  out  the  press 
Of  those  fierce  darts  Despair  at  me  doth  throw: 

0  make  in  me  these  civil  wars  to  cease; 

1  will  good  tribute  pay,  if  thou  do  so. 

Take  thou  of  me  smooth  pillows,  sweetest  bed, 
A  chamber  deaf  to  noise  and  blind  to  light, 
A  rosy  garland  and  a  weary  head: 
And  if  these  things,  as  being  thine  by  right, 
Move  not  thy  heavy  grace,  thou  shalt  in  me, 
Livelier  than  elsewhere,  Stella's  image  see. 

Sir  Philip  Sidney. 


ii    I  hi  it  if 


Sir  Philip  Sidney 

From  the  engraving  by  George  Vertue 
after  the  painting  by  Isaac  Oliver 


75 


Care-Charmer  Sleep 

CARE-Charmer  Sleep,  son  of  the  sable  night, 
Brother  to  Death,  in  silent  darkness  born: 
Relieve  my  languish  and  restore  the  light; 
With  dark  forgetting  of  my  care,  return, 
And  let  the  day  be  time  enough  to  mourn 
The  shipwrack  of  my  ill-adventured  youth: 
Let  waking  eyes  suffice  to  wail  their  scorn 
Without  the  torment  of  the  night's  untruth. 
Cease  dreams,  the  images  of  day  desires, 
To  model  forth  the  passions  of  the  morrow; 
Never  let  rising  sun  approve  you  liars, 
To  add  more  grief  to  aggravate  my  sorrow. 
Still  let  me  sleep,  embracing  clouds  in  vain, 
And  never  wake  to  feel  the  day's  disdain. 

Samuel  Daniel. 

The  Cypress  Curtain 

The  cypress  curtain  of  the  night  is  spread, 

And  over  all  a  silent  dew  is  cast. 

The  weaker  cares,  by  sleep  are  conquered: 

But  I  alone,  with  hideous  grief  aghast, 

In  spite  of  Morpheus'  charms,  a  watch  do  keep 

Over  mine  eyes,  to  banish  careless  sleep. 


76 

Yet  oft  my  trembling  eyes  through  faintness 

close, 
And  then  the  Map  of  Hell  before  me  stands; 
Which  ghosts  do  see,  and  I  am  one  of  those 
Ordained  to  pine  in  sorrow's  endless  bands, 
Since  from  my  wretched  soul  all  hopes  are  reft 
And  now  no  cause  of  life  to  me  is  left. 

Grief,  seize  my  soul!  for  that  will  still  endure 
When  my  crazed  body  is  consumed  and  gone; 
Bear  it  to  thy  black  den!  there  keep  it  sure 
Where  thou  ten  thousand  souls  dost  tire  upon! 
Yet  all  do  not  afford  such  food  to  thee 
As  this  poor  one,  the  worser  part  of  me. 

Thomas  Campion. 

Come,  Sleep 

Come,  Sleep,  and  with  thy  sweet  deceiving. 

Lock  me  in  delight  awhile; 

Let  some  pleasing  dreams  beguile 

All  my  fancies;  that  from  thence 

I  may  feel  an  influence, 
All  my  powers  of  care  bereaving! 

Though  but  a  shadow,  but  a  sliding, 
Let  me  know  some  little  joy! 


77 

We  that  suffer  long  annoy 
Are  contented  with  a  thought, 
Through  an  idle  fancy  wrought: 
Oh,  let  my  joys  have  some  abiding! 

John  Fletcher. 

Invocation  to  Sleep 

CARE-charming  Sleep,  thou  easer  of  all  woes, 
Brother  to  Death,  sweetly  thyself  dispose 
On  this  afflicted  prince;  fall  like  a  cloud 
In  gentle  showers;  give  nothing  that  is  loud 
Or  painful  to  his  slumbers;  easy,  light, 
And  as  a  purling  stream,  thou  son  of  Night 
Pass  by  his  troubled  senses;  sing  his  pain 
Like  hollow  murmuring  wind  or  silver  rain; 
Into  this  prince  gently,  O  gently,  slide, 
And  kiss  him  into  slumbers  like  a  bride. 

John  Fletcher. 

Dawn 

Fly  hence,  shadows,  that  do  keep 
Watchful  sorrows  charmed  in  sleep! 
Tho'  the  eyes  be  overtaken, 
Yet  the  heart  doth  ever  waken 
Thoughts  chained  up  in  busy  snares 
Of  continual  woes  and  cares: 


78 

Love  and  griefs  are  so  exprest 
As  they  rather  sigh  than  rest. 
Fly  hence,  shadows,  that  do  keep 
Watchful  sorrows  charmed  in  sleep! 

John  Ford. 

On  a  Quiet  Conscience 

Close  thine  eyes,  and  sleep  secure; 

Thy  soul  is  safe,  thy  body  sure. 

He  that  guards  thee,  he  that  keeps, 

Never  slumbers,  never  sleeps. 

A  quiet  conscience  in  the  breast 

Has  only  peace,  has  only  rest. 

The  wisest  and  the  mirth  of  kings 

Are  out  of  tune  unless  she  sings: 

Then  close  thine  eyes  in  peace  and  sleep 

secure, 
No  sleep  so  sweet  as  thine,  no  rest  so  sure. 

King  Charles  I. 

An  Anodyne 

As  in  the  night  I  restless  lie 
I  the  watch-candle  keep  in  eye; 
The  innocent  I  often  blame, 
For  the  slow  wasting  of  its  flame. 


■  ■  '/  >     /'     ■  fo/l  I  I   1  /   /  /,  ,  ,  ,  ,,,,,/t   /)  /■,  ,}  -f, ■ ' 


John  Fletcher 

From  the  engraving  by  George  Vertue 


79 

Sweet  ease!  O  whither  are  you  fled! 
With  one  short  slumber  ease  my  head! 

My  curtain  oft  I  draw  away, 
Eager  to  see  the  morning  ray; 
But  when  the  morning  gilds  the  skies, 
The  morning  no  relief  supplies. 
To  me,  alas!  the  morning  light 
Is  as  afflictive  as  the  night. 

My  vigorous  cries  to  God  ascend, 
O!  will  not  God  my  cries  attend? 
Can  God  paternal  love  forbear, 
Can  God  reject  a  filial  prayer? 
Is  there  in  Heaven  for  me  no  cure, 
Why  do  I  then  such  pains  endure? 

My  flesh  in  torture  oft  repines 
At  what  God  for  my  good  designs; 
My  spirit  the  repiner  chides, 
Submissive  to  God's  will  abides: 
God  my  disease  and  temper  weighs, 
No  pang  superfluous  on  me  lays. 

Why  should  I  then  my  pains  decline, 
Inflicted  by  pure  love  divine? 


8o 

Let  them  run  out  their  destined  course, 
And  spend  upon  me  all  their  force: 
Short  pains  can  never  grievous  be, 
Which  work  a  blest  eternity. 

Thomas  Ken. 

To  Sleep 

A  flock  of  sheep  that  leisurely  pass  by 
One  after  one;  the  sound  of  rain,  and  bees 
Murmuring;  the  fall  of  rivers,  winds  and  seas, 
Smooth  fields,  white  sheets  of  water,  and  pure 

sky; 
By  turns  have  all  been  thought  of,  yet  I  lie 
Sleepless;  and  soon  the  small  birds'  melodies 
Must  hear,  first  utter'd  from  my  orchard  trees, 
And  the  first  cuckoo's  melancholy  cry. 
Even  thus  last  night,  and  two  nights  more  I  lay, 
And  could  not  win  thee,  Sleep!  by  any  stealth: 
So  do  not  let  me  wear  to-night  away: 
Without  Thee  what  is  all  the  morning's  wealth? 
Come,  blessed  barrier  between  day  and  day, 
Dear  mother  of  fresh  thoughts  and  joyous  health! 

William  Wordsworth. 


8i 


To  Sleep 

O  soft  embalmer  of  the  still  midnight! 

Shutting  with  careful  fingers  and  benign 
Our  gloom-pleased   eyes,   embower 'd   from   the 
light, 

Enshaded  in  forgetfulness  divine; 
O  soothest  Sleep!  if  so  it  please  thee,  close, 

In  midst  of  this  thine  hymn,  my  willing  eyes, 
Or  wait  the  amen,  ere  thy  poppy  throws 

Around  my  bed  its  lulling  charities; 

Then  save  me,  or  the  passed  day  will  shine 
Upon  my  pillow,  breeding  many  woes; 
Save  me  from  curious  conscience,  that  still  lords 

Its  strength  for  darkness,  burrowing  like  a 
mole; 
Turn  the  key  deftly  in  the  oiled  wards, 

And  seal  the  hushed  casket  of  my  soul. 

John  Keats. 

The  Magic  Sleep 

Year  after  year,  unto  her  feet, 

She  lying  on  her  couch  alone, 
Across  the  purple  coverlet 

The  maiden's  jet-black  hair  has  grown, 


82 

On  either  side  her  tranced  form 

Forth  streaming  from  a  braid  of  pearl; 
The  slumbrous  light  is  rich  and  waim, 

And  moves  not  on  the  rounded  curl. 

The  silk  star-broider'd  coverlid 

Unto  her  limbs  itself  doth  mould, 
Languidly  ever;  and,  amid 

Her  full  black  ringlets  downward  roll'd, 
Glows  forth  each  softly  shadow'd  arm 

With  bracelets  of  the  diamond  bright: 
Her  constant  beauty  doth  inform 

Stillness  with  love,  and  day  with  light. 

She  sleeps:  her  breathings  are  not  heard 

In  palace  chambers  far  apart. 
The  fragrant  tresses  are  not  stirr'd, 

That  lie  upon  her  charmed  heart. 
She  sleeps:  on  either  hand  upswells 

The  gold-fringed  pillow  lightly  press 'd: 
She  sleeps,  nor  dreams,  but  ever  dwells 

A  perfect  form  in  perfect  rest. 

Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson. 


Part  VI 
Ctjarms 


"You  Spotted  Snakes  with  Double 
Tongue" 

You  spotted  snakes  with  double  tongue, 

Thorny  hedge-hogs  be  not  seen; 
Newts  and  blind- worms,  do  no  wrong; 
Come  not  near  our  fairy-queen: 

Philomel,  with  melody, 

Sing  in  our  sweet  lullaby; 
Lulla,  lulla,  lullaby;  lulla,  lulla,  lullaby; 

Never  harm, 

Nor  spell,  nor  charm, 

Come  our  lovely  lady  nigh; 

So,  good  night,  with  lullaby. 

Weaving  spiders,  come  not  here: 

Hence,  you  long-legged  spinners,  hence! 
Beetles  black,  approach  not  near; 
Worm,  nor  snail,  do  no  offence. 
Philomel,  with  melody, 
Sing  in  our  sweet  lullaby; 
Lulla,  lulla,  lullaby;  lulla,  lulla,  lullaby; 
Never  harm, 
Nor  spell,  nor  charm, 
Come  our  lovely  lady  nigh; 
So,  good  night,  with  lullaby. 

William  Shakespeare. 


86 

The  Charm 

Son  of  Erebus  and  Night, 

Hie  away;  and  aim  thy  flight, 

Where  consort  none  other  fowl 

Than  the  bat  and  sullen  owl; 

Where  upon  thy  limber  grass 

Poppy  and  mandragoras 

With  like  simples  not  a  few 

Hang  for  ever  drops  of  dew. 

Where  flows  Lethe  without  coil 

Softly  like  a  stream  of  oil. 

Hie  thee  thither,  gentle  Sleep: 

With  this  Greek  no  longer  keep. 

Thrice  I  charge  thee  by  my  wand, 

Thrice  with  moly  from  my  hand 

Do  I  touch  Ulysses'  eyes, 

And  with  the  jaspis:  then  arise 

Sagest  Greek  .  .  . 

William  Browne. 

"Now  the  Hungry  Lion  Roars" 

Now  the  hungry  lion  roars, 

And  the  wolf  behowls  the  moon; 

Whilst  the  heavy  ploughman  snores, 
All  with  weary  task  fordone. 


87 

Now  the  wasted  brands  do  glow, 

Whilst  the  scritch-owl,  scritching  loud, 
Puts  the  wretch  that  lies  in  woe 

In  remembrance  of  a  shroud. 
Now  it  is  the  time  of  night 

That  the  graves,  all  gaping  wide, 
Everyone  lets  forth  his  sprite, 

In  the  churchway  paths  to  glide: 
And  we  fairies,  that  do  run 

By  the  triple  Hecate's  team, 
From  the  presence  of  the  sun, 

Following  darkness  like  a  dream, 
Now  are  frolic;  not  a  mouse 
Shall  disturb  this  hallowed  house: 
I  am  sent  with  broom  before, 
To  sweep  the  dust  behind  the  door. 

William  Shakespeare. 

The  Charm 

1st  Witch.    Thrice  the  brindled  cat  hath  mewed. 
2nd  Witch.  Thrice;     and     once     the     hedge-pig 

whined. 
3rd  Witch.    Harpier  cries:  'T  is  time,  't  is  time. 
1st  Witch.     Round  about  the  cauldron  go: 
In  the  poison'd  entrails  throw. 


88 

Toad,  that  under  coldest  stone 
Days  and  nights  has  thirty-one 
Sweltered  venom  sleeping  got, 
Boil  thou  first  i'  th'  charmed  pot! 

All.  Double,  double  toil  and  trouble; 

Fire,  burn;  and  cauldron,  bubble. 

2nd  Witch.  Fillet  of  a  fenny  snake, 

In  the  cauldron  boil  and  bake; 
Eye  of  newt  and  toe  of  frog, 
Wool  of  bat  and  tongue  of  dog, 
Adder's  fork  and  blind-worm's  sting, 
Lizard's  leg  and  owlet's  wing, 
For  a  charm  of  powerful  trouble, 
Like  a  hell-broth  boil  and  bubble. 

All.  Double,  double  toil  and  trouble; 

Fire,  burn;  and  cauldron  bubble. 

3rd  Witch.    Scale  of  dragon,  tooth  of  wolf; 

Witches'  mummy;  maw  and  gulf 
Of  the  ravined  salt-sea  shark, 
Root  of  hemlock,  digg'd  i'  th'  dark, 
Liver  of  blaspheming  Jew, 
Gall  of  goat,  and  slips  of  yew, 
Slivered  in  the  moon's  eclipse, 
Nose  of  Turk,  and  Tartar's  lips, 
Finger  of  birth-strangled  babe, 


William  Shakespeare 

From  the  engraving  by  Martin  Droeshout 


89 

Ditch-delivered  by  a  drab, 
Make  the  grue  thick  and  slab; 
Add  thereto  a  tiger's  chaudron, 
For  the  ingredients  of  our  cauldron. 

All.  Double,  double  toil  and  trouble; 

Fire,  burn;  and  cauldron,  bubble. 

2nd  Witch.  Cool  it  with  a  baboon's  blood, 

Then  the  charm  is  firm  and  good. 

William  Shakespeare. 

Dream-Pedlary 

If  there  were  dreams  to  sell, 

What  would  you  buy? 
Some  cost  a  passing  bell; 

Some  a  light  sigh, 
That  shakes  from  Life's  fresh  crown 
Only  a  rose-leaf  down. 
If  there  were  dreams  to  sell, 
Merry  and  sad  to  tell, 
And  the  crier  rang  the  bell, 

What  would  you  buy? 

A  cottage  lone  and  still, 

With  bowers  nigh, 
Shadowy,  my  woes  to  still, 

Until  I  die. 


9o 

Such  peace  from  Life's  fresh  crown 
Fain  would  I  shake  me  down. 
Were  dreams  to  have  at  will, 
This  would  best  heal  my  ill, 
This  would  I  buy. 

Thomas  Lovell  Beddoes. 

The  Owl 

When  cats  run  home  and  light  is  come, 

And  dew  is  cold  upon  the  ground, 
And  the  far-off  stream  is  dumb, 
And  the  whirring  sail  goes  round, 
And  the  whirring  sail  goes  round; 
Alone  and  warming  his  five  wits, 
The  white  owl  in  the  belfry  sits. 

When  merry  milkmaids  click  the  latch, 
And  rarely  smells  the  new-mown  hay, 
And  the  cock  hath  sung  beneath  the  thatch 
Twice  or  thrice  his  roundelay, 
Twice  or  thrice  his  roundelay; 
Alone  and  warming  his  five  wits, 
The  white  owl  in  the  belfry  sits. 

Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson. 


91 


The  Fairies 

Up  the  airy  mountain, 

Down  the  rushy  glen, 
We  dare  n't  go  a-hunting 

For  fear  of  little  men; 
Wee  folk,  good  folk, 

Trooping  all  together; 
Green  jacket,  red  cap, 

And  white  owl's  feather! 

Down  along  the  rocky  shore 

Some  make  their  home, 
They  live  on  crispy  pancakes 

Of  yellow  tide-foam; 
Some  in  the  reeds 

Of  the  black  mountain  lake, 
With  frogs  for  their  watch-dogs, 

All  night  awake. 

High  on  the  hill-top 

The  old  King  sits; 
He  is  now  so  old  and  grey 

He  's  nigh  lost  his  wits. 
With  a  bridge  of  white  mist 

Columbkill  he  crosses, 
On  his  stately  journeys 

From  Slieveleague  to  Rosses; 


92 

Or  going  up  with  music 

On  cold,  starry  nights, 
To  sup  with  the  Queen 

Of  the  gay  Northern  Lights. 

They  stole  little  Bridget 

For  seven  years  long; 
When  she  came  down  again, 

Her  friends  were  all  gone. 
They  took  her  lightly  back, 

Between  the  night  and  morrow, 
They  thought  that  she  was  fast  asleep, 

But  she  was  dead  with  sorrow. 
They  have  kept  her  ever  since 

Deep  within  the  lake, 
On  a  bed  of  flag-leaves, 

Watching  till  she  wake. 

By  the  craggy  hill-side, 

Through  the  mosses  bare, 
They  have  planted  thorn-trees 

For  pleasure  here  and  there. 
Is  any  man  so  daring 

As  dig  one  up  in  spite, 
He  shall  find  the  thornies  set 

In  his  bed  at  night. 


93 

Up  the  airy  mountain, 

Down  the  rushy  glen, 
We  dare  n't  go  a-hunting 

For  fear  of  little  men; 
Wee  folk,  good  folk, 

Trooping  all  together; 
Green  jacket,  red  cap, 

And  white  owl's  feather. 

William  Allingham. 

Robin  Goodfellow 

From  Oberon,  in  Fairy-land, 

The  King  of  ghosts  and  shadows  there, 

Mad  Robin  I,  at  his  command, 

Am  sent  to  view  the  night-sports  here. 

What  revel  rout 

Is  kept  about, 
In  every  corner  where  I  go, 

I  will  o'ersee, 

And  merry  be, 
And  make  good  sport  with  ho,  ho,  ho! 

More  swift  than  lightning  can  I  fly 
About  this  airy  welken  soon, 
And,  in  a  minute's  space  descry 
Each  thing  that's  done  below  the  moon. 


94 

There's  not  a  hag 

Or  ghost  shall  wag, 
Or  cry  'ware  goblins!  where  I  go; 

But,  Robin,  I 

Their  feats  will  spy, 
And  send  them  home  with  ho,  ho,  ho! 

Whene'er  such  wanderers  I  meet, 

As  from  their  night-sports  they  trudge  home, 

With  counterfeiting  voice  I  greet, 

And  call  them  on  with  me  to  roam, 

Through  woods,  through  lakes, 

Through  bogs,  through  brakes, 
Or  else,  unseen,  with  them  I  go, 

All  in  the  nick 

To  play  some  trick, 
And  frolic  it,  with  ho,  ho,  ho! 

Sometimes  I  meet  them  like  a  man, 
Sometimes  an  ox,  sometimes  a  hound, 
And  to  a  horse  I  turn  me  can, 
To  trip  and  trot  about  them  round. 

But  if  to  ride, 

My  back  they  stride, 
More  swift  than  wind  away  I  go, 

O'er  hedge  and  lands, 

Through  pools  and  ponds, 
I  hurry,  laughing,  ho,  ho,  ho! 


95 

By  wells  and  rills,  in  meadows  green, 
We  nightly  dance  in  heyday  guise; 
And  to  our  fairy  king  and  queen 
We  chant  our  moonlight  minstrelsies. 

When  larks  'gin  sing 

Away  we  fling; 
And  babes  new-born  steal  as  we  go, 

And  elf  in  bed 

We  leave  instead, 
And  wend  us  laughing,  ho,  ho,  ho! 

From  hag-bred  Merlin's  time  have  I 
Thus  nightly  revell'd  to  and  fro; 
And  for  my  pranks  men  call  me  by 
The  name  of  Robin  Good-fellow. 

Fiends,  ghosts  and  sprites, 

Who  haunt  the  nights, 
The  hags  and  goblins  do  me  know; 

And  beldames  old 

My  feats  have  told 

So  vale,  vale!  ho,  ho,  ho! 

Anonymous. 


Part  VII 


Tuwhoo,  Tuwhit,  Tuwhit,  Tuwhoo-o-o 

Sweet  Suffolk  owl,  so  trimly  dight 
With  feathers  like  a  lady  bright, 
Thou  sing'st  alone,  sitting  by  night, 
Te  whit,  te  whoo! 
Thy  note,  that  forth  so  freely  rolls, 
With  shrill  command  the  mouse  controls, 
And  sings  a  dirge  for  dying  souls, 
Te  whit,  te  whoo! 

Thomas  Vauter. 

"Why  Art  Thou  Slow, 
Thou  Rest  of  Trouble,  Death" 

Why  art  thou  slow,  thou  rest  of  trouble,  Death, 

To  stop  a  wretch's  breath, 
That  calls  on  thee,  and  offers  her  sad  heart 

A  prey  unto  thy  dart? 
I  am  not  young  nor  fair;  be,  therefore,  bold: 

Sorrow  hath  made  me  old, 
Deformed  and  wrinkled;  all  that  I  can  crave 

Is  quiet  in  my  grave. 
Such  as  live  happy,  hold  long  life  a  jewel; 

But  to  me  thou  art  cruel, 


100 

If  thou  end  not  my  tedious  misery 

And  I  soon  cease  to  be. 
Strike,  and  strike  home,  then;  pity  unto  me, 
In  one  short  hour's  delay,  is  tyranny. 

Philip  Massinger. 

A  Dirge 

Call  for  the  robin-redbreast  and  the  wren, 

Since  o'er  shady  graves  they  hover, 

And  with  leaves  and  flowers  do  cover 

The  friendless  bodies  of  unburied  men. 

Call  unto  his  funeral  dole 

The  ant,  the  field-mouse,  and  the  mole, 

To  rear  him  hillocks  that  shall  keep  him  warm, 

And  (when  gay  tombs  are  robbed)  sustain  no 

harm; 
But  keep  the  wolf  far  thence,  that 's  foe  to  men, 
For  with  his  nails  he  '11  dig  them  up  again. 

John  Webster. 

Dirge 

Hark,  now  everything  is  still, 

The  screech-owl  and  the  whistler  shrill, 

Call  upon  our  dame  aloud, 

And  bid  her  quickly  don  her  shroud! 


101 

Much  you  had  of  land  and  rent; 

Your  length  in  clay's  now  competent: 

A  long  war  disturbed  your  mind; 

Here  your  perfect  peace  is  signed. 

Of  what  is  't  fools  make  such  vain  keeping? 

Sin  their  conception,  their  birth  weeping, 

Their  life  a  general  mist  of  error, 

Their  death  a  hideous  storm  of  terror. 

Strew  your  hair  with  powders  sweet, 

Don  clean  linen,  bathe  your  feet, 

And  —  the  foul  fiend  more  to  check  — 

A  crucifix  let  bless  your  neck: 

'T  is  now  full  tide  'tween  night  and  day; 

End  your  groan,  and  come  away. 

John  Webster. 

Upon  a  Child  That  Died 

Here  a  pretty  baby  lies 
Sung  asleep  with  lullabies: 
Pray  be  silent  and  not  stir 
Th'  easy  earth  that  covers  her. 

Robert  Herrick. 


Indexes 


^ttocx  to  &utf}or£ 

Wit))  iFirfit  lines  of  t&cir  JJocma 

Allingham,  William 

Up  the  airy  mountain,  91 

Anonymous 

Balow,  my  babe,  lie  still  and  deep!  4 

From  Oberon,  in  Fairy-land,  93 

Barnes,  William 

I  'd  a  dream  to-night  47 

The  rook's  nest  do  rock  on  the  tree-top  15 

Beddoes,  Thomas  Lovell 

If  there  were  dreams  to  sell,  89 

Blake,  William 

Awake,  awake,  my  little  boy!  14 

I  have  no  name  :  27 

Little  lamb,  who  made  thee  ?  26 

My  mother  groan' d,  my  father  wept ;  27 

Sleep  !  sleep  !  beauty  bright,  1 3 
When  the  voices  of  children  are  heard  on  the  green,     28 

Breton,  Nicholas 

Come  little  babe,  come  silly  soul,  6 

Browne,  William 

Son  of  Erebus  and  Night,  86 

Campbell,  Thomas 

Star  that  bringest  home  the  bee,  66 


io6 

Campion,  Thomas 

The  cypress  curtain  of  the  night  is  spread,  75 

Charles  I,  King  of  England 

Close  thine  eyes,  and  sleep  secure  ;  78 

Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor 

On  the  wide  level  of  a  mountain's  head  37 

Coleridge,  Sara 

O  sleep,  my  babe,  hear  not  the  rippling  wave  16 

Daniel,  Samuel 

Care-Charmer  Sleep,  son  of  the  sable  night,  75 

Dekker,  Thomas 

Golden  slumbers  kiss  your  eyes,  I  j 

Fletcher,  John 

Care-charming  Sleep,  thou  easer  of  all  woes,  77 

Come,  Sleep,  and  with  thy  sweet  deceiving,  76 

Shepherds  all,  and  Maidens  fair,  63 

Ford,  John 

Fly  hence,  shadows,  that  do  keep  77 

Greene,  Robert 

Weep  not,  my  wanton,  smile  upon  my  knee  ;  9 

Her  rick,  Robert 

Here  a  little  child  I  stand  41 

Here  a  pretty  baby  lies  IOI 

Howard,  Henry,  Earl  of  Surrey, 

Laid  in  my  quiet  bed,  in  study  as  I  were,  3 


107 

J  on  son,  Ben 

Queen  and  Huntress,  chaste  and  fair,  62 

Keats,  John 

O  soft  embalmer  of  the  still  midnight !  81 

Ken,  Thomas 

As  in  the  night  I  restless  lie  7S 

Lamb,  Mary 

A  child  's  a  plaything  for  an  hour  ;  45 

Marvel  I,  Andrew 

See  with  what  simplicity  41 

With  sweetest  milk  and  sugar  first  43 

Massinger,  Philip 

Why  art  thou  slow,  thou  rest  of  trouble,  Death,  99 

Meredith,  George 

Fleck  of  sky  you  are,  50 

Milton,  John 

Oft,  on  a  plat  of  rising  ground  64 

Patmore,  Coventry 

My  little  son,  who  look'd  from  thoughtful  eyes,  49 

Rossetti,  Dante  Gabriel 

To-night  this  sunset  spreads  two  golden  wings  69 

Rowlands,  Richard 

"Upon  my  lap  my  sovereign  sits  10 

Sackville,  Thomas,  Lord  Buckhurst 

By  him  lay  heavy  Sleep,  the  cousin  of  Death,  73 

Mydnyght  was  cum,  and  every  vitall  thing  61 


io8 

Shakespeare,  William 

Now  the  hungry  lion  roars,  86 

Thrice  the  brindled  cat  hath  mewed.  87 

You  spotted  snakes  with  double  tongue,  85 

Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe 

Art  thou  pale  for  weariness  68 

Swiftly  walk  over  the  western  wave,  67 

Sidney,  Sir  Philip 

Come,  Sleep  !  O  Sleep,  the  certain  knot  of  peace,  74 
With  how  sad  steps,  O  Moon,  thou  climb'st  the  skies  !  73 

Stevenson,  Robert  Louis 

All  round  the  house  in  the  jet-black  night ;  5  5 

In  winter  I  get  up  at  night  5  I 

I  saw  you  toss  the  kites  on  high  5  3 

My  bed  is  like  a  little  boat  ;  52 

When  the  bright  lamp  is  carried  in,  54 

Symonds,  "John  Addington 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep  !  the  Mother  sings:  17 

Tennyson,  Alfred,  Lord 

When  cats  run  home  and  light  is  come,  90 

Year  after  year,  unto  her  feet,  8  I 

Tennyson-  Turner,  Charles 

When  Letty  had  scarce  pass'd  her  third  glad  year,         48 

Traherne,  Thomas 

But  that  which  most  I  wonder  at,  which  most  24 

Sweet  infancy  !  25 

These  little  limbs,  22 

Tynan,  Katharine 

Lest  he  raiss  other  children,  lo  !  56 

Thy  kingdom  come  !    Yea,  bid  it  come  !  55 


109 

Vaughan,  Henry 

Happy  those  early  days,  when  I  21 

Vauter,  Thomas 

Sweet  Suffolk  owl,  so  trimly  dight  99 

Watts,  Isaac 

Hush!  my  dear,  lie  still  and  slumber,  12 

Webster,  John 

Call  for  the  robin-redbrea9t  and  the  wren,  100 

Hark,  now  everything  is  still,  1 00 

Wordsworth,  William 

A  flock  of  sheep  that  leisurely  pass  by  80 

It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free,  65 

There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  stream,  29 

Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower  j  45 


€f)e  €abic 

©r  SfnUcj;  to  first  lines 

A  child  's  a  plaything  for  an  hour;  Mary  Lamb  45 

A  flock  of  sheep  that  leisurely  pass  by 

William  Wordsivorth  80 
All  round  the  house  in  the  jet-black  night; 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson  55 

Art  thou  pale  for  weariness  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  68 

As  in  the  night  I  restless  lie  Thomas  Ken  78 

Awake,  awake,  my  little  boy  !  William  Blake  14 

Balow,  my  babe,  lie  still  and  sleep !  Anonymous       4 

But  that  which  most  I  wonder  at,  which  most 

Thomas  Traherne  24 
By  him  lay  heavy  Sleep,  the  cousin  of  Death, 

Thomas  Sack-ville     73 

Call  for  the  robin-redbreast  and  the  wren, 

John  Webster   100 
Care-Charmer  Sleep,  son  of  the  sable  night, 

Samuel  Daniel     75 
Care-charming  Sleep,  thou  easer  of  all  woes, 

John  Fletcher      77 
Close  thine  eyes,  and  sleep  secure  ;  King  Charles  I     78 

Come  little  babe,  come  silly  soul,  Nicholas  Breton        6 

Come,  Sleep,  and  with  thy  sweet  deceiving, 

John  Fletcher      76 
Come,  Sleep !   O  Sleep,  the  certain  knot  of  peace, 

Sir  Philip  Sidney      74 


Ill 


Fleck  of  sky  you  are, 

Fly  hence,  shadows,  that  do  keep 

From  Oberon,  in  Fairy-land, 

Golden  slumbers  kiss  your  eyes, 

Happy  those  early  days,  when  I 

Hark,  now  everything  is  still, 

Here  a  little  child  I  stand 

Here  a  pretty  baby  lies 

Hush!  my  dear,  lie  still  and  slumber, 


I'd  a  dream  to-night 

If  there  were  dreams  to  sell, 

I  have  no  name  : 

In  winter  I  get  up  at  night 

I  saw  you  toss  the  kites  on  high 


It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free  ; 

William  Wordsworth 


George  Meredith  50 
"John  Ford  77 
Anonymous     93 

Thomas  Dekker      1 1 

Henry  Vaughan  21 

John  Webster  100 

Robert  Her  rick  41 

Robert  Her  rick  1 01 

Isaac  Watts  12 

47 
89 

27 

51 

53 

°5 


William  Barnes 

Thomas  Lo-vell  Beddoes 

William  Blake 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


Laid  in  my  quiet  bed,  in  study  as  I  were, 

Henry  Howard,  Earl  of  Surrey  3 

Lest  he  miss  other  children,  lo  !                Katharine  Tynan  56 

Little  lamb,  who  made  thee  ?                        William  Blake  26 

My  bed  is  like  a  little  boat  ;               Robert  Louis  Stevenson  52 
My  little  son,  who  look'd  from  thoughtful  eyes, 

Co-ventry  Patmore  49 

My  mother  groan'd,  my  father  wept;          William  Blake  27 
Mydnyght  was  cum,  and  every  vitall  thing 

Thomas  Sack-ville  61 


Now  the  hungry  lion  roars, 


William  Shakespeare      86 


112 

Oft,  on  a  plat  of  rising  ground,  Jo^n  Mi/ton  64 

O  sleep,  my  babe,  hear  not  the  rippling  wave, 

Sara  Coleridge  16 
On  the  wide  level  of  a  mountain's  head 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge  37 

O  soft  embalmer  of  the  still  midnight !  Job"  Keats  8 1 

Queen  and  Huntress,  chaste  and  fair.  Ben  Jonson  62 

See  with  what  simplicity  Andrew  Mar-veil  41 

Shepherds  all,  and  Maidens  fair,  John  Fletcher  63 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep  !  the  Mother  sings : 

John  Adding  ton  Symonds  17 

Sleep,  sleep,  beauty  bright,  William  Blake  I 3 

Son  of  Erebus  and  Night,  William  Browne  86 

Star  that  bringest  home  the  bee,  Thomas  Campbell  66 

Sweet  infancy!  Thomas  Traherne  25 

Sweet  Suffolk  owl,  so  trimly  dight  Thomas  Vauter  99 

Swiftly  walk  over  the  western  wave,  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  67 

The  cypress  curtain  of  the  night  is  spread, 

Thomas  Campion  75 
There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  stream, 

William  Wordsworth  29 
The  rook's  nest  do  rock  on  the  tree-top 

William  Barnes  15 

These  little  limbs  Thomas  Traherne  22 

Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower  j 

William  Wordsworth  45 

Thrice  the  brindled  cat  hath  mewed.  William  Shakespeare  87 
To-night  this  sunset  spreads  two  golden  wings 

Dante  Gabriel   Rossetti  69 

Thy  kingdom  come  !  Yea  bid  it  come  !    Katharine  Tynan  55 


H3 

Upon  my  lap  my  sovereign  sits  Richard  Rowlands     io 

Up  the  airy  mountain,  William  Allingham     91 

Weep  not,  my  wanton,  smile  upon  my  knee  ; 

Robert  Greene        9 
When  cats  run  home  and  light  is  come, 

Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson      90 
When  Letty  had  scarce  pass'd  her  third  glad  year, 

Charles  Tennyson-Turner  48 
When  the  bright  lamp  is  carried  in,  Robert  Louis  Ste-venson  54 
When  the  voices  of  children  are  heard  on  the  green, 

William  Blake     28 
Why  art  thou  slow,  thou  rest  of  trouble,  Death, 

Philip  Massinger     99 
With  how  sad  steps,  O  Moon,  thou  climb'st  the  skies  ! 

Sir  Philip  Sidney      73 
With  sweetest  milk  and  sugar  first  Andrew  Mar-vell     43 

Year  after  year,  unto  her  feet,        Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson      8  I 
You  spotted  snakes  with  double  tongue, 

William  Shakespeare     85 


jFmi0 


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